


You Are My Sunshine

by Jamie_Anya



Series: Action-Themed Hiddlesworth [2]
Category: Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe RPF, Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gangsters, Brotherhood, Chris is a young biker and a gangster leader, Lobotomy, M/M, Rourke is a merciless foe, Stalking, Tom is an adorably innocent kindergarten teacher, chris is prepared to make chaos, drug mules, eventual hiddlesworth, human nature's drive to gain profit and power, major character deaths, play with fear, sadness behind chris's sarcastic comments, total violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:40:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 23,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2610503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jamie_Anya/pseuds/Jamie_Anya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Within four short years, young Chris adopts everything a 'modern' criminal should have - finesse, charm and a cause. Underneath a facade of some troublemaker biker, he happens to be one of the unsuspected gang leaders called the Trojan. One night, Chris saves a wounded foreigner who has unfortunate ties with his enemy, Rourke and his humongous influence and empire in Chicago. One event leads to another, Chris finds himself involved with the absolute violence of the world of crime and utter domination.</p><p>Story begins in Chapter Two.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Hope you enjoy it as much as i had fun writ--typing it.

 

 

Chris Hemsworth * Tom Hiddleston

 

 ~*~

 

In this absolute darkness, in the midst of this chaos - it was impossible to find them a safe place to hide. To cower from this terrible night and from the bastards who took their freedom away. What more could he have possibly do but to run, as this was the first time since he made leader did he panic. Three days spent strained in that truck, a week passed by so slow in that traitorous warehouse. He didn't know where they had taken him to, he didn't know where in bloody hell should he go. This cold and dry atmosphere, void of people nor lights. Seemed like a desert, was he somewhere in New Mexico? And where would this neverending road take him to? Should he stop? No. Rourke's insolent pack of treacherous dogs might still be chasing, he saw lights tailing them not a few moments ago, and he had to keep on driving. But with the distressing grunts, moans and sobs coming from his right, Chris had to stop by somewhere and tend his injured boyfriend as quickly as he could. He hesitated when he spotted an abandoned gas station, in the middle of nowhere with a huge possibility that they might get caught. Fear teased him, but this foreign will urged and dominated his weakening pride. It took him a second to decide and the car screeched to a halt by the rundown shop, people in love would commit the stupidest things. Like him. The darkness rolled through every nook and cranny of that small sanctuary, a temporary heaven for them. They would be safe here, for now. He hoped for just a few hours. A few minutes should do before Rourke's guys caught up to them.

Chris got out of the battered Mercedes, tumbled to his side when his own wound took its toll down his quivering legs. Fear, fear, go away. He felt utterly useless, he was so scared. But he forced himself to stand, checking his surroundings for suspicious vehicles as he staggered to Tom's door and yanked it open. He gasped when he saw blood seeping through the cushion of Tom's seat, soaking the poorly wrapped bandages around Tom's thigh. His pale features, trembling body and skin slicked with sweat - the obvious show of the winning fear fighting against losing willpower.

Hooking an arm around Tom's shoulder, the other at the back of his knees, Chris muttered, "C'mon, baby! I'll get you patched up... You're gonna be alright."

"...C-Chris! No..." his breath hitched. "J-Just--"

"Baby, please... I-I have to--"

"N-No... Stop...! It hurts...!"

"I know, baby... I know."

He panicked when Tom cried at the pain shot up his lower back, the wound on both his thigh and his soul. Tom held on to him, arms bracing tightly and buried his face on the crook of Chris' neck. Muffled cries and hitched gasps, like he was desperate not to fall unconscious, as if he was any better than a weakling.

"Hold on, Tom... Stay with me," Chris begged, blinking away his unshed tears as he carried his wounded lover into the deserted shop.

He kicked the backdoor open, rusty locks flung to the ground, made his way into a much spacious area and rested Tom on a dust covered couch. The windows were barred with planks of rotting wood, untouched barstools resting on top of broken counters and tables, empty beer bottles, damaged lights and cheap chandeliers, old boom box. The air in this aged bar was surprisingly a lot easier to breathe in than the outside.

Chris was about to go and barricade the backdoor, and find something he could use as bandages - if he was lucky, a needle and a thread - but Tom's hold that slipped to his wrist tightened. Tugging him closer, lightly and exhausted, begging him to stay. Stay for a little longer, stay forever. Never leave his side. Chris swallowed the lump in his throat upon hearing the quiet sobs. The darkness covered his eyes, he could only see the outline of Tom's curled, and shivering figure. Where he had stubbornly admitted nothing would scare him weeks ago, through this mess, through this mental torture he was facing with Tom did he feel fear picking on courage. Cackling at his state.

"C-Chris..."

His broken gasps answered his poor darling.

"...Chris, my sweet prince charming..."

He almost laughed, that nickname Tom always call him.

But that voice, tinted with hurt. Whimpering softly of his tainted name, repeating over and over again, like a chant. Tom's voice called him back, assuring him that he was still human - Chris too understand sadness, he was never a monster. The scarred look on Tom's face told him, it was okay to feel helpless. It was okay to cry, he didn't have to act big when he himself was so small in age. From all those years of fake courage, he felt himself loosening when the wall finally crumbled. The boy in him returned, and he cried. Chris, the leader who had lustful taste in brutality of revenge, was finally crying his heart out. Shedding his tears, he brought their linked hands to his forehead, falling to his knees - asking for forgiveness. It was all his fault, he never should have left Tom all alone. It was a stupid mistake.

All his hard work, gone. Poof.

"C-Chris... Chris, i am so sorry... I-I was so scared... I-I didn't know what to do..." Tom sobbed, cupping a bloody hand on Chris' bruised cheek. Gently, hesitantly brushing the cut cheekbone, "P-Please don't go..."

Resting his forehead on top of Tom's heaving chest, basking into how alive his darling was, Chris shook his head. Tom's trembling fingers in his hair, their linked hands clutched near Chris' own beating heart. His voice that used to be so full of pride, sounded so foreign to his ears, "I'm not going anywhere... Baby, i won't leave you ever again... I don't want to repeat that same mistake..."

"...It's not your fault. Chris, it's never your fault..."

Consolation.

Chris waited until Tom fell asleep, dark circles around his eyes, heavy and exhausted. He found that the sink in the dirty bathroom still worked, washing his tired face and the blood sticking on his skin. He grimaced at the zig-zag stitches on his side just above his hipbone, angered at how vulnerable he was when a small important part of him was taken. Finding a clean cloth by the bar, tearing into two, he used one to replace Tom's old bandages. The other to clean the caked blood on Tom's face, as gently as he could. And scrubbed the arrogant _dirt_ between Tom's legs. There was a tear, he checked. Tom needed medical attention, the bullet needed to be taken out and he couldn't find any needles nor threads. Yet, it would be too dangerous if he indeed find a needle. There would be an infection, he could slip on wrong skin. Chris' heart skipped a beat when he heard Tom grunting in his sleep, moaning in discomfort. Running his fingers through Tom's unruly curls, Chris kissed his temple and hushed a broken assurance that everything would be alright. No one could foresee this to happen. Rourke had truly left scars on the two of them, unhealed and isolated them from the rest of the world. A cunning move, Chris admitted. But his newfound discovery was what attracted him for vengeance the most, this liar - this middle man.

He didn't know what had happened to his friends. Or what was left of them. Were they all killed? But at least, knowing how torn Tom struggled to heave new air, gave Chris some valuable time to plot his plans and decide that there was one and only place he could go to. He could save Tom.

Spotting a suspicious door at the back of the shop by the destroyed room formerly used for staffs, blocked by broken furniture of tables and chairs, Chris whispered softly at Tom's listening ear that he would be back in a jiffy. Tom groaned in response, blinking his tired eyes when Chris bowed down to kiss his dry lips before shutting them closed again. He used what was left of his jacket to cover Tom's naked legs. Replacing the clutters of wood and metal on the side, Chris suspected the door - it was unlocked, and had a small gap breathing pungent oil. A familiar smell. The door could be mistaken as cold storage for meat, but this place used to be a bar. He couldn't see anything, adding to the darkness of the shop at night. Testing the weight of the door, he dragged and pushed the cold, rusty door open. Made use of his lingering strength as his eyes were welcomed by crowds of weapons and bullets. The serial number, personally gunsmithed by a certain professional, finally made Chris curved a sly grin. He could earn billions from selling these, old machines and new. Useful, very useful.

Chris sagged in relief, something finally favoured his way as he tested a rifle he found on his right. He was delighted at a plan that suddenly popped in his head, to rebuild a new gun from these. Just in case, he couldn't afford to be caught by the police right now. But why would the owner store them at a deserted place such as this? But this would do, glad that it still worked. Ah, sweet plans for revenge.

And the box full of explosives too, seemed to say 'hi' to him.


	2. Messing with the Big Guys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd, English is not my mother tongue. Chapter one updated, and i'm introducing my monster chapter two. Got so many to explain and this is the result :/ It took me hell lot of weeks to get hang of the differences between street gangs and mobsters. And i fractured my ankle. Internet's not doing so great. Sorry, for the very... VERY long wait. Well, here it is! Think i'd finish this story first before i go update the rest. Promises again. Enjoy!
> 
> Sorry if it got a bit messy and repetitive towards the end. Just go along, okay? See you soon! Lots of love!

~*2*~

_This life is tough. Most of us didn't make it in one piece. Except for--_

"You've made quite the reputation around here, managed to impress the guys handling your case. But things didn't really work out that well for you, huh? To end up in jail every time," said the policeman on guard for the young detainee in the somber holding cell. He intended to be sympathetic, a sheer pity shared between two men. But his tone sounded off like a sneer, an obvious display of authority between a policeman and his prisoner. Very smug, like the said detainee was the first, simple young criminal he'd encountered. Not a professional one, this guy with his trusty wooden baton. How did he end up as an officer anyway? The sneer might be unintentional, and that he didn't notice - or pretended not to give a damn about it. Flipping through the few pages of the detainee's report file in his meaty hands, he clicked his tongue in awe when he spotted the detainee's age and the list of criminal offences the young man had committed in recent past.

"Trespassing, aggravated assault, fraud, theft, drug possession... Now found positive for substance abuse? My god, and you're just a kid. Don't you have anything better to do? You shouldn't be wasting your life away like this. You should be in school."

No response.

"I'm just trying to give you some damn advice here, kid. I'm a parent, i know what's good for ya," the potbellied policeman chided. Irritated when ignored, he shut the file, his foot tapping on the ground restlessly as he waited in vain for his comment to have any sort of effect on the young man. His nostrils flared at the silent treatment he was receiving. Either he was fuming on the rude manner of the detainee, or that he couldn't stand the eerie quietness of the holding cell at night. The room was shockingly cold for late spring, and he was already sweating bullets in his stiff uniform. For the sake of forming a conversation, though a crude one to pass the time, the policeman didn't seem to care what the young man actually felt.

But _Chris_ had the very right to remain silent, the only one fitting that he was obligated to in this type of situation - unless something poked on his patience, and threatened his usually calm demeanor. Play it cool, like he always did.

Chris had been lying flat on his back for hours since he was arrested. Ignoring how sore his limbs and muscles were, his upsetting stomach and the building nausea, he continued to fake his sleep. He was wide awake, suspiciously unfearful of his arrest. He acted like the stereotypical offender the police labelled his profession to be. The kind that believed being caught redhanded was a part of their liberated young lives, and treated the violation of theft and in possession of something illegal as good rather than bad. Maybe this senseless, immature way of thinking pissed off the poor policeman sitting outside the bars. The cot was like a second bed to Chris, though uncomfortable, it would suffice for the few moments or hours whilst waiting for his bail. Which would pop in any moment now. The police station, in the meantime, seemed like a temporary home to him - with metal bars, and new agitated criminal friends. Not that Chris minded to be handcuffed and shoved into the coldest room he'd ever been in, but the police loved catching him. And he loved making the fool out of them. The reason he was currently in jail? Approximately five hours ago, Chris was caught stealing. Nearly ran off with a costly purse, shockingly, there wasn't much money in that woman's red Prada.

The policeman sighed as he flung Chris' records on a nearby table, crossing his arms, "When my son was around your age, he made an effort to work hard even though he couldn't compete with the people his level! And what do you know? He got to Cambridge with his own blood and sweat, Cambridge! Unlike my youngest daughter..."

This guy blabs so much, must be new, Chris thought. There was never any good if you start to compare between your kids, this was no advice. Of course, it was understandable that every parent liked to market their children's success, but was it worth? People ought to realise that some just couldn't afford to go that far - maybe not in terms of money, but something else. Either way, children were bound to feel pressured by expectations. Sometimes forced. The world's never a fair place, the parents would argue. What good did it lead? Competitions, challenges, success yes but death, suicide, stress? None ever thought of that. Chris understood that the policeman wanted him to realise all the beauties of knowledge he was missing and neglecting, but he already had plenty in his head. Drive his motivation and open his eyes to stop committing these frustrating crimes. He would study if his brain really wanted to. And Chris pondered to himself, grades never did determine one's maturity and true independence. Grades were used for the future, a sub-skill in life and in Chris' case, he'd sold his future to become the man hungry for utter satisfaction. He had lost his grip on the innocence of his young age when a tragedy happened to his family a few years ago. He sighed inwardly, just don't start on the _bit_ , that's all he ask.

"My youngest should've gotten better grades than her brother, she should've graduated by now and gotten to medical school. She didn't have the guts, i've spent all of my money for what? Nothing. And you should be in college by now, doing what's best for your future. What will your parents--"

Snapped!

"Your son's **dead** , isn't he?"

"H-How'd you--"

"Hmm... You didn't notice it but you talk in past tense. Guessing from your age, you're not that old nor young. So your son should be around my age. And your tone's different when it comes to your daughter. It surprises me, good sir, that you didn't tell me about your son being a graduate. Thus, i presume he's already dead before that even happened," Chris blatantly replied as he sat up, narrowing his piercing blue eyes at the stunned policeman. That sharp stare scared the living soul out of him, hung whatever words he had on his bragging tongue. A typical father, enforcing his typical patriarchal views. Nice pay back, jackpot. By the look of the policeman's sweating and blanched face, his son's death seemed to be his fault. The only light near his cell casted darker shadows on his broad figure, outlining the muscles and his t-shirt wrapping around his build. Sinister looking stare, expressionless face. Chris wasn't provoking the officer, he was smacking some sense, an obvious truth - the answer the policeman had certainly denied. "Why should you compare anyway? You call that good parenting?"

The policeman gulped, his legs were quivering, "S-Speak for yourself--"

"I say your son killed himself, all because of you. With what, a noose? Or your gun? Your daughter, she hates you. She ran away from home. And you've never seen her for quite some time."

"Y-You--"

"Lucky guess. Criminals like me do that often," Chris smiled, all of his lucky guesses were right.

Then, the only door of the confinement room finally clacked and swung open. Chris mentally sighed in relief, finally he didn't have to panic. The time offered him a chance to escape, which came about two hours late. He exaggerated that his moment of freedom was welcoming him with arms open wide and thus, away from this blabbering policeman. A familiar face with his cold, bronze badge, phew. Detective Samuel Jackson aka Sam, or the nickname Chris preferred to call, Sammy, with his dead-piercing, stoic-looking pair of menacing eyes and that long sigh he took as a habit whenever Chris was in police custody. The detective beckoned the spooked potbellied policeman to unlock the cell door, telling him that Chris was anonymously bailed. Was that even possible, shouldn't there be a name written somewhere to bail a criminal? But the policeman seemed to trust Sam, either he was a rookie or hadn't had enough action, Chris wouldn't want to know. Chris didn't spare the still shocked policeman a glance as he followed the detective out. The supposedly perfect epitome of a father stood trembling, his brain crumbling on how deadly those blue eyes were. Let it be known that Chris was not just some amateur jailbird.

His hooded bomber was reluctantly returned to him, like they were already missing him. He was about to retort back to the officers at the counter, but there was something awfully strange about their snickers - and so he replaced his suspecting frown with a grin. They gave him back his beanie, small change and cash, and the black rosary necklace he owned. It was strange to both the police and the bystanders, Chris didn't look that committed to his faith, he never did. Maybe, he was just wearing those for the sake of modern style. Fashion, all the trends these days. Just, maybe.

Out from the torturing police station, he basked into the early night's comforting cold and the reassuring noises of honks, and mindless chatters of bystanders. Free, once again. Free, for the thousandth time. He meant to have wings on his back, a symbol of his purposeful liberation. It was easy to trick his way out through his crimes, he always had an intention. Not a hobby, but a habit he developed through the few years. If a plan didn't work, he could always form another. But for just today, he couldn't afford to escape on his own. He needed something from the police, something sensitive. Chris shook his head in amusement, a way to show his respect to a certain friend who was already waiting for him by his black, sleek BMW. Evans waved at him telling him that he'd give him a ride, then curved a sly grin as he twirled his keys. Two hours late, he needed to go fast. Chris took the steps in two and jumped a bit when Sam called him back.

"Chris! ...You have to stop doing this to yourself, Chris. I promised you freedom, not this. Tell me how many offences have you done for the last four years? This was and is the worst! Drug possession? They found a packet of cocaine in your pocket, and you're even found guilty for consuming it! How many packets did you take, huh? What the fuck were you thinking?!" the detective scolded him, Chris' report file in his hand. The young man waited, and listened. Chris admitted, that he did consume cocaine - just a packet, strong dose, and he didn't like it. Sam groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Don't act like i'm stupid... I know you have a reason for getting arrested. For your own goddamn sake, stop whatever it is you're planning to do."

Chris gestured his hands to the ground below him, "Like walking down these fucking steps?"

" _Chris_."

Chris halted, that supposed to be a metaphor. The first thing that popped inside the minds of people engulfed in rage was always the unpleasant one. But the answer was twofold - Sam thought Chris was being mindless of his situation, that he meant it literally - but Chris meant the opposite, his life was making a grave downfall and there was nothing he could do but to accept it. He watched Evans starting the car, sighing as he pocketed his hands and turned his head to the fuming detective. His glare versus the older man's fatherly concern for him. Chris hated this treatment, he didn't deserve this. This supposedly warm-hearted detective was not one of his _kind_.

"You know i can't keep busting your ass out of that cell. The FBI, the CIA? They will track down every single member of your _Trojan_ , including you. You'll be sentenced to life in prison, who knows what other penalties you'll be given. There's no chance for you to escape."

"Sounds very comforting. Why haven't you get caught yet?"

Sam, was his mother's best friend. He'd been willingly helping Chris since he involved himself in this illegal profession that cost him his age and goals. Bribing the officers in charge, no doubt. The world's never a fair place, he repeated in his head - and there would always be corruption. The detective gave him shelter when Chris had nowhere to go, offer him protection when he knew the young man didn't need it. And it shocked Chris, still did, on how quick he was to find such a blessed haven in violating the laws. He taught himself to be attentive, agile, how to be brave and witty as he would need them. Caught by the policemen was just for entertainment, he needed the good rush of adrenaline for once in awhile. Like he said, he enjoyed making the fool out from these officers. Including dear old Sam.

"I'm serious."

"You think i'm not?"

"There won't be a next time. I won't be there to help you," Sam warned.

As if this would be his last time meeting the detective, Chris reminded himself, in this profession - it'd be nice to cut all possible ties with people like Sam. Opening the passenger door, Chris called out to him, "Yeah, sure. Though i'm betting you'll eventually change your mind the _next time_ you hear my name on the news."

Without waiting for Sam's reply, slipping past at how disappointed and guilty the old man looked, he and Evans drove away.

There was something that made Chris to treat him so rudely like this, was it because Sam was the closest he had for a parental figure? No, that wasn't it, and he was miles away from finding the answer. Watching at Sam's reflection on the side-view mirror, the detective slumped down to sit on the steps, hands hiding his face. Chris turned away, and didn't feel the slightest remorse. Sam was a good, responsible man. He'd done so much and sacrificed everything he had for him, but Chris never asked to be treated like a substitute son Sam lost many years ago. The man deserved much better. But something clicked in Chris' head, how he was entirely involved with the wanted Trojan, and in both his line of work and the people who offered him a lend of their hands, not even a good samaritan like Sam was to be trusted. No one, in this world, that he could trust and put his faith in - except for his Trojan members. Not because Sam was a policeman, it was with the fact that Chris knew the man was as crafty as he was.

Chris never did tell Sam anything about him being a Trojan member.

He shrugged off his jacket, and quickly felt through the leather and the cotton inside. Pass the two zippers, investigating every inch of his favourite jacket, the rough edges of pockets and smooth coat texture, men ties to the authorities like Sam were bound to be both true and deceitful to their words - _will track down every single member of your Trojan, including you._ Finding a suspicious bump on the front, where one could easily mistook for a useless button, and thin wires leading up to the bomber's right collar, Chris snorted. He was bugged. That jelly-belly policeman on guard duty was right, Chris did have a reputation around here. And was pleased that he decided to make a good use of that reputation before his arrest. Evans whistled at Chris' quick discovery, but slowed down his car when he spotted incredulous looking cars and drivers parked on the side - glancing at the BMW, mouth and jaw moving, as if they were waiting. He cleared his throat and signalled Chris about the policemen in disguise. Chris thought, don't look like policemen, that's for sure. The youngest of the two sighed, took out a cell phone from the glove box and tapped a few numbers before he leaned back on his seat.

"How was it? Stuck in jail i mean," Evans asked, buying some time. Playing along.

"It's shit."

"It can't be all that bad."

Chris exaggerated, searching on the inside of his bomber, "I was tortured with incessant talks about life. I nearly died..."

Evans made a few turns, peering at his rear-view mirror and smiled at one car following them. Chris in the meantime, found a small portion inside by his bomber's right collar that was freshly sewn. Ripping his jacket open, he was delighted at a teeny, foreign device glued on the cloth. A button-looking GPS tracker and the police's tiny bug were staring at them. The two friends shared glances. Chris didn't expect Sam would go this far to betray him so quickly, taking advantage of him. Better yet, he wasn't even surprised nor dejected. Truth be told, he didn't feel anything. This was a normal outcome. He expected this to happen.

"Gotcha'," Evans grinned, earning a smirk across Chris' face as he disconnected the wires of the bug and the tracker. "Really though, jail's not that bad. Once you get used to it."

"I'm already used to it and i will forever tell you that it's bad." Chris flung his jacket to the back, narrowing his eyes at the side-view mirror of another two cars biting on their tail. Opening up an application in the cell phone, he said, "30 seconds for decoys to show up, stall them."

"Aye, aye."

Evans rummaged through a small bag he kept beneath his seat and tossed a makeshift USB cable he made to Chris, steering to the left down a one-way street, he peered at the three cars now following them. They might not be a bunch of policemen, just to be sure. There might be a few distance kept between the first vehicle and the BMW, and that the three cars might be taking on a different route, but it was obvious to both of them that they were being followed. The cell phone buzzed with a short message that popped, " _Online_." Sighting similar black BMWs driving out from different buildings in the city, with the same license plate as theirs, Chris nodded at Evans - it's time. Using the cable, Chris connected the bug and the tracker's wires to the phone. With the application he opened, Chris worked his way, pushed a few numbers in and tapped the call icon.

"So, how many hours did you wait?" Chris questioned his fellow gang member out of curiosity.

Hunting for their decoys, Evans hummed, "Eh, i saw that aunty kicking you, so... Five hours? That heels though, ouch."

The police's GPS altered Chris' location to the decoys' cell phones, replacing the police's bug with Bon Jovi's 'It's My Life'. Evans made quick turns on the right and left - normal speed, normal looking passenger and his driver, normal looking car without the care of the bystanders walking on the pathways by the stores - they passed one twin BMW, which it instantly took over their place before the three cars could spot the change.

Chris looked at him, and groaned in embarrassment, "Dude..."

"What? Just be glad i'm the only witness when your dick got kicked."

"I was just starting to forget what she did--Ugh, you- Jesus..."

"I know how you feel. A man's pride is everything."

"Tell me about it..."

Then the second, and the third BMWs going at different directions, taking the attention of the cars following them. The police might be aware of Chris' trick, only if they didn't depend too much on modern technologies. Though, they would eventually break through Chris' overriding setup on their system, at least it would buy them some time. Thanks to Sam's intentional two hours lateness. Their small plan was a success, the police had lost track of them, the two didn't expect the police would be this oblivious. But one shouldn't be too confident in this situation with the police, they were a part of an illegal organisation who was currently messing with Chicago's police force. Always be ready, and prepare a one step ahead. Swerving to an underground parking lot of an office building, Evans drove to the base level and turned off the engine by a white SLS Mercedes. He collected all of their required belongings, including the bug and the GPS, while Chris switched the BMW's license plates with a new one Evans had in the trunk. He took the old license plates along and quickly made their escape with Evans' parked Mercedes.

The car sped out of sight as they left the heavily guarded police area of the grand city, the sound and the speed of the upgraded, glossy Mercedes was something to feel jelly to. Chris rolled his eyes when Evans snickered at him buckling on his seatbelt. For safety purposes, Evans was a notorious speed enthusiast and a self-proclaimed winner of the year's street racing competition. Sure, Chris too loved the speed, but Evans was much of a hardcore devotee than him. Chris never trusted being confined in a cramped space like a car, so many buttons and pedals to push. He preferred the gratifying freedom of his motorcycle he called 'baby'.

"Anyway... Took you long enough to get bailed, man. Here i thought you'd never get out. The guys were starting to get worried," Evans started, laughing a bit at a comical thought criminals like them would get incredibly worried toward one another. Resting his hands on the columns of the steering wheel, heading to the main road, they could finally relax for a little while. They would need it. The police wouldn't be chasing them for now.

"I thought so too, but it looks like our dear old Sammy's conflicted," Chris grinned, running a hand through his dirty-blond hair. An unknown weight lifted off his shoulders, maybe from cutting off his ties with Sam. Maybe not, something else perhaps. He breathed in, overwhelmed with relief that he was out from that cell, smelling of strawberry drifting in the air. A tinge of lavender tickled his nose, the aroma Evans weirdly took a liking in. He remembered their last Halloween, where the ballroom was filled with the fragrance of sweet strawberry, the familiar smell reminded him of Robert's costume - and quickly dismissed the thought of his fellow leader in a pink bunny suit. Chris couldn't think clearly after that. Yup, he was definitely exhausted. He needed some good comfort of his bed, he never really did get enough sleep for the last few days. Unfortunately, the night proved to be very busy for them - he needed to focus. Finding a comfortable spot, "So, what's the situation?"

"Well, nobody suspected us. The police, the gangs, the people. It's like a normal occurrence, except for the minor alarm with those guys back there. But that was two hours ago, i don't know about now. Jaimie didn't ring me, so i'm guessing the coast is still clear. And oh, the guys went ahead to Jeremy's workshop, just in case you're not back before nine."

Chris took a glimpse at Evans' watch, "It's not even nine yet. At least we got more than what we needed."

"You mean that frickin' GPS?"

"And the other one."

"Oh yeah, the card."

Chris was caught stealing by the police. He deliberately, though unwillingly, consumed a considerable amount of cocaine Jeremy gave him, to make his crime less suspicious to the bluecoats. Like an alibi to conceal his real intention. But those three cars from before, they didn't seem like policemen to him. Either way, Chris never liked being someone he wasn't, he was never an addict to begin with. His system would automatically eject the foreign chemicals out. Chris was usually composed, going about his own business and never entirely hang out with his Trojan herd. If he really was going to steal, he'd go for a high-class victim, not a faker like that aunty with thick mascara. His mission's target worked in an office, Weaving Industries, in one of the many areas heavily patrolled and swarming with police cars and endless sirens. Chris tracked down where she would go, blending with the crowds, careful not to be seen by suspicious looking men in starchy suits. He had to get arrested, else the other gangs would notice his presence and involvement with the Trojan. It was an easy attempt to lure the police's attention, plus the cocaine he snuck in his pocket. Even though the woman's wallet worth nothing but a couple of ten bucks, her Prada forged out of plastic, a small box of condom, perfume and cosmetics, Chris' goal was not her money. But the red, glassy card-key she possessed.

Evans took it out from his front pocket, and gave it to him. "Her bank accounts are pointless. We checked her home, no jewelries, no safe. Nothing expensive about her at all. But a card? It's a bit ambiguous though that she works in Weaving Industries, thought that place is too upper-crust."

"It's because everything's too ambiguous that makes her an easy target."

"And the fake card? You even went through all the trouble to duplicate the thing."

"Just some cheap glass, ink and stickers, mate. She wouldn't notice. Unless she went ahead to check it..."

_Five hours ago..._

_Chris hid his face under the protection of his hoodie, and sunglasses. Just because the afternoon was surprisingly cold and his eyes were hurting - he considered it was probably due to his drug allergies. Yet, the jacket and the shades added to his disguise. He had to be sure not to be remembered by the other gangs. Waiting for something, or someone by the railing - he picked that very afternoon just because he saw a chance that her bodyguards wouldn't be accompanying her. He practically eavesdropped yesterday, before he quickly spent his entire night faking the red card. He hung his head low, bystanders wouldn't recognise him, but doubting him like he expected. Chris was acting out so well, professionally, perhaps like some drug-addict ready to steal. He was about to steal, in just a few moments more. He coughed, acutely aware that he uncomfortable and allergic on taking that much cocaine. He would have to vomit it out, and regret on taking them if the plan didn't work. The itch and the twitch were driving him insane. Hands in his pockets, he continued to wait, observing the people under his shades._

_Then at the corner of his eye, he saw her exiting. Blonde, slim and in an elegant white dress - maybe she had plans, dinner in some five-star hotel. Prada gripped loosely in one hand, busy with her phone. She was heading his way, very good, and not a second more, Chris ran off with the targeted purse in his possession._

_She was shrieking behind him, crying for help. Sorry, lady._

_If the woman's rescuer was fast with his feet, Chris was even faster. He never bothered to force his legs to move, running was one of the many skills he polished since he joined Trojan. Be quick, was the solution. If not for this profession, he would have joined the Olympics, winning gold medals and trophies. But he had to be careful, he wasn't dealing with a typical group of people here, the owner of the key he wanted was a very powerful man. Using the distance to his advantage, he swapped the real card with the fake. The perfect copy of glassy-red, the numbers and the initial. Turning left to an acrid alley, the route where he was supposed to go, Chris tossed the original card to a seemingly homeless man - Evans - who was about to dive into a dumpster. Nice ragged costume, he thought, good acting with all those stick-on beard. When everything was secured, with the card tucked safe in Evans' pocket, Chris slowed and let himself be tackled to the ground. He struggled, just a bit, sunglasses missing but lost all of his breath when a slightly larger man came to help and pinned him down. Useless purse taken away, and it did hurt... when kicked by the woman's shiny stilettos._

"It's not like you, y'know? What's so important about that card anyway?" Evans asked, stopping at the red light. If they'd be so energetic after that small car chase, Evans would have continued driving and swerving pass honking cars. But they were too exhausted for some rush, and the thought of going back to that cell shuddered the younger Trojan. Evans sighed, rubbing his tired face, "Neither Robert nor Jaimie bothered to tell me these things. Just asked me to follow your orders, and that's that."

Raising the card to a nearby street light, Chris' eyes flashed at the authenticity of the expensive glass. This thing would cost so many, if he sell it at Chicago's black market. Though very dear, this was just the 'door' to what he really wanted. The blended colour of red seemed to disappear against the orange light, but smirked at the hidden numbers appeared at the very bottom.

**9**

**4**

**1**

**5**

**3**

**0**

**2**

**7**

**8**

**6**

**...**

**9**

**4**

**1**

**5**

**3**

**6**

**7**

**0**

**2**

**8**

$ 9, 415, 367, 028 dollars and counting. The card was like a small computer chip, a self-made system serving as a key to two pathways. And Chris' intention of stealing, reputation with the police and basically messing with the owner of the card - was to regain back the prestige the Trojan lost four years ago. The card was used to keep track of the money coming in and accumulating into the card-key's vault. Or should he say, vaults. The other, was an simple access route to the owner's banks - he could swindle of the man's money that way. Victimless activity, maybe. This would change everything, along with the GPS, and Chris had already decided by stealing this card, the war he desired had officially announced. It wouldn't be too much about politics, guns and carnage. Violence, death, yes. But something far more terrible that would eventually happen when two groups of rival gangs clashed together. It would be madness.

Taking note on how the number changed dramatically, Chris smirked, "Dude, this baby here will give us billions. If not, more. We just gotta do some hacking, and a small infiltration... Then we're off the grid."

"Infiltration? Really, Hems?" the older Trojan frowned, "Look at us, we're not spies. We're not that 'big' like before, not small either--"

Chris cut him off, "Just go with me on this, Evs. 'Kay?"

"Alright, but please tell me it's not about classified documents again..." Evans grumbled, shivered at a memory of being surrounded by a group of armed Chinese mafia last two years when the two mischievous Trojans made a little slip. And landed themselves in an unexpected consequence. Chris was nowhere to be found when Evans was beaten near to his death. "S'not that easy being a delivery guy, y'know?"

Chris huffed and crossed his arms, "It's not my fault you got your ass whooped by Chinese Triads."

"Not my fault you got sexually harrassed by fuckin' prostitutes! And they're all old ladies!"

Chris rolled his eyes, a silent raise of white flag as he resorted to stare out his window, muttering how they would have succeeded the mission if Evans hadn't been too weak. It amused him, and it was clear that the younger Trojan was too embarrassed about what happened throughout that humiliating week. Evans did share half the blame, he should've gone with the plan and not be beaten by rock fists. Chris, too, should have gone without him - but he _stayed_ , setting the documents on fire - much to the Chinese Triads' dismay.

"Still, the fault's on you..."

"Yeah, yeah," Evans sighed. It wasn't always that he would see Chris being so childish like this, perhaps normal, considering his age and the youngest in the Trojan. He respected Chris like a little brother, friendly bickering between them symbolized their unspoken brotherhood. Their unspoken loyalty to each other. "So, what're you gonna say about the card?"

"Oh. Horseman," Chris simply said. He snorted seconds later at Evans' puzzled look, it must've sounded ridiculous. Well, he did put it vaguely anyway. He must have thought Chris was going to kidnap someone who was skilled in riding horses, for what. Chris added, a small smile on his face, "Remember Hopkins? Seems like one of his four horses survived."

Anthony Hopkins was the Trojan's greatest asset, for decades, in terms of loan-sharking, debt-collecting and extorting businesses from small markets to industrial companies in their turf. He was known for his ancient family inheritance of four well-named biblical horses - silver in white, gold in black and red, and diamonds in pale. The possesion of these horses symbolized wealth and respect, but created sparks of jealousy to rival gangs. Because of Hopkins' existence in the Trojan circle, also a father-like figure to a rookie like Chris, they were without a doubt, rich. Until Hopkins' untimely brutal death, found decapitated in his home - known to the entire gangs, the media, the government on who murdered Trojan's most important ally - spawned a deep, limitless hatred in Chris' heart. He suffered so many lost in his young life, again and again. And Chris vowed, to return at least one of the stolen horses back to Hopkins' daughter - the child the good man spoke fondly of, the child he never met but loved dearly.

"I thought he destroyed all of them. And you're implying this card can lead us to one of the horses?"

"Yep. The only one, and it's coloured black."

"Aiming for the gold inside, aren't you?"

"The worth of gold increases by year, i should say it's more valuable than bank notes." Chris turned to his brother-friend, and continued, "Another importance about this card is that it's the only key to dear someone's ten vaults near Burnham harbor, which of course will lead us to the horseman. And," he paused, waiting for Evans' expected curiousity, "Robert's stolen painite brooch."

Evans widened his eyes, surprised, "You gotta be kidding me... Robert's wife's brooch? The dragon with a painite crystal?"

Four years ago, out of the blue, a gunshot was heard.

It was an hour before New Year and a few days before young Chris unquestionably joined the notorious gang, Robert's pregnant wife was brutally murdered by unexpectedly one of the three Trojan leaders. He was an exceptional comrade to Robert and Jaimie, the only son of the Trojan's passed pioneer. With him in the Trojan cycle, the gangs in the whole world feared them. A well-respected man turned out to be a ruthless killer, who humiliatingly committed unjustifiable treason against his gang members. Ruptured face, perfect bones and skin destroyed by the fragmented bullet of a shotgun. Mangled limbs. Her baby, Robert's small eight-months old heir, was taken out from her stomach, missing. Blunt knife found in the bloody bathroom, the golden colour of the suite was replaced by complete red.

For days did the Trojan seem to have lost two of their best leaders. The painite brooch, the symbol of the Trojan's authority over Chicago's underworld, sported by Robert's wife the day she was murdered, was stolen. It was a rare, supremacy jewel, envied by many. Fought by many. And the Trojan's succession to primacy ended abruptly after two decades, by the sudden betrayal that left them utterly hopeless and vulnerable. The sudden announcement of an opposition caught them by surprise. Throughout those dark days, Jaimie couldn't handle so many followers on her own, and the Trojans eventually turned against each other - open for the other gangs to assert sovereignity over them and Chicago's underworld.

Until a certain 16 year old boy, expelled from his high school, came into the broken family picture of the Trojans. So young and traumatized, didn't have much of a smile the first few days Evans met him. Unhealed scars drawn on his soul, aura of mystery and sadness revolving around him. Chris single-handedly returned the fear that once belonged to the Trojan, a lone boy waging war against Trojan's new enemy. Armed with a homemade rifle he created out of metal pipes, cheap coils, bolt, a trigger and real bullets. He looked like he was engrossed in the reality of his console games. Drowned and lost in the sea of violence. In front of Robert and Jaimie, he aimed the nozzle of his rifle at the said betrayer's head and released a clean shot through the man's brain. His face, expressionless throughout the whole execution. Like the boy he was, Chris apologised as the painite remained uncovered. And the dead fetus was long gone. He apologised when a huge number of members lost and that the Trojan was not so fearful and infamous like before.

Robert took him in, not out of force nor pity. Chris, being the broken child he was, apologised when he thought he was a nuisance. Poor, poor traumatized boy. But Robert was glad that Chris helped them, felt guilty when Chris told them his age. It was a sad thing to hear, the day when Jaimie showed him to his room and that he practically beamed at the softest bed he'd ever laid on.

" _...Is this mine?_ " he asked gingerly.

Jaimie patted his back, and smiled, " _Yes, everything's in this room is yours. You know you don't have to ask!"_

" _It's just that... I've never owned a real bed before._ "

Now here he was, all grown and finally found a lead to the lost painite after four years.

"How'd you know all about this?" Evans pondered, sighing at the bitter memories.

"Spotted Rourke owning a familiar looking horse about a week ago, and a certain ruby caught me attention. I thought, 'what the heck?'. I followed them and got me to Weaving's warehouse," Chris hummed, tucking the card safely in the front pocket of his jeans.

Rourke. 'Mickey' Rourke, the person who ordered the death of Robert's wife and two years later, Hopkins. Not again. Evans groaned, it would be like the Chinese mafia all over again. But this time, it involved Rourke. "Hems, don't get me wrong, i'll help you with everything i got. But i really, really hope you know what you're doing. Rourke's not gonna be merciful when it comes to us... Remember four years ago? Remember what happened to Hopkins? He destroyed, and humiliated the shit out of us! That guy's a wrestler, dude. A former marine, skilled mercenary, i could go on! You've been going at him since you made boss, and now we're gonna trick his money and the horseman? I'm surprised you're not scared."

"Whenever i want something, it comes with an intention," Chris said, and Evans pursed his lips. "I'm never scared of that dipshit Rourke. But he will, eventually, come hunting us down. Not if we're steps ahead than him that is," he grinned, pointing his thumb at the still operating GPS in Evans' bag resting in the trunk.

Evans paused, glancing at Chris. The only thing he could do was to tag along with the young leader's suicidal plan, and keep him safe. He would never understand why Chris was so adamant about making the shit out of Rourke. Out of vengeance maybe? Chris never really did tell him why. Because of what? What was Chris hiding from them?

"So why the woman?" he asked, turning left as they headed to one of the Trojan's safehouses - it would take them another fifteen minutes to get there.

Chris leaned his head back on the headrest, closing his eyes as he quirked a sly grin. Face slightly pale, his allergy was making him a bit queasy. "That woman is Rourke's mistress, she'd do anything for him. That's what i had in mind."

"Smartass," he snorted.

"It's called logic, stupid." 

*

One of their southern safehouses in Downtown Chicago - a car workshop for endless customization and upgrades for devoted customers surrounded by stores and malls, a cinema and a theatre, restaurants, apartments and office buildings - was owned by an infamous muay-thai champion, and a brutal street fighter known for his ferocity of bombarding his opponents with his lightning fists. He was the Trojan's watchdog, named Jeremy. Nobody realised the popular workshop was used as hiding quarters for the Trojan, using the shop's basement as storage for their guns and equipments, fooling the whole population and his regulars out of their wits. The workshop, also happened to be the nearest to Burnham harbor, a few splotches of neutral territories, where they would commence their biggest mission yet, though they would have to return to a different safehouse after. Just to be sure they'd successfully escaped Rourke's watching eyes, his falcons' listening ears. But then, they were two hours late - three, to be exact - they might need to change their agreed plan. And had to start their mission immediately since the card-key was already in possession.

Parked in an alley were few of their runners stood waiting for their arrival, puffs of distinct tobacco lingered in the cold air. Snuffing their cigarettes on the wet concrete, they nodded their heads when Evans entrusted them on the care of his expensive Mercedes - and grunted something about helping cleaning up a disgusting 'mess' later. Also to stand on guard for any spies, or moles - one shouldn't be too confident about not being suspected. In this dark world, there was no such thing as safe. Chris who accidentally 'dirtied' himself on the way to the workshop, checked the contents of Evans' duffel bag - BMW's license plates, the cell phone still connected to both the bug and tracker, a pocket knife, a handgun and Chris' fresh change of clothes. Jaimie, who was surprisingly took on the model of a mother in his life, told him to bring along a spare, just in case something happened. He slipped on his spare t-shirt, leaving his ripped bomber behind and threw away his stained shirt. Hoisting the bag up his shoulder, he followed Evans along the dark alley and through the backdoor of Jeremy's workshop. Closed early, lights long switched off and passed their men who stood and greeted them. Good, loyal men. Up the short flight of stairs, and into one of the boardrooms used occasionally for their group meetings, they were welcomed by Jeremy's spirited voice not a second after.

"Whoo! Our lil' leader's back! I missed you, man!" Jeremy moved to hug him, choking the living out of the young Trojan. Chris coughed when the shorter man pulled away, the man's strength was not to be underestimated as he punched lightly on his arm. Everyone who was formerly occupied with the job at hand, was all smiles when they saw him. Like a brush of their worry instantly vanished. Relieved that he was okay.

Jaimie said with a smile, "What took you so long, Hemmy? Your Thor's been so lonely without you!" She was seated cross-legged on a chair by the window with a cup of steaming coffee in her hands. Mark who was immersed in his laptop, looked up to him briefly with his own share of smile and nodded his head. Never did he fail to look so calm.

Oh, Thor! He'd forgotten about it. Chris' big bad 'baby' - that sleek, sexy-looking black Suzuki Hayabusa. The first thing that crossed his mind when he realised he had enough money in his pockets. He wondered where Jeremy parked that devil motorcycle. Chris' own smile brightened when he saw Robert, sat on his usual ergonomic chair in front of one of the computer screens in the boardroom. They'd been working on plan B, it seemed, while he was away locked in some jail. Robert turned his head to him, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and faked a sob, "I know that look, blondie's got it bad with Rourke's woman~ I'm so proud of you! You're grown up so fast...!"

Chris smiled because he felt he was finally helping Robert to retrieve back what belonged to him. Other than Mark, this very laid-back boss of the Trojan, was one of the closest father figures Chris had. He rolled his eyes, handing Evans' bag to Scarlett and caught a bottle of water she flung to him. Watching her taking out the cell phone and the wired bug and tracker with interest, he said, "I admit she's pretty and all, but not my taste. Too phony for me."

"Picky," Robert pouted.

Chris never wanted to be a part of the Trojan herd, their runners never really liked him anyway. Some would look at him in high regard, others would hate him outright. Too young, they argued, to be a leader. Why should they listen to a brat? His circle of influence, the people he called his 'new' family, were these lovely individuals. Wasn't always that everybody got together. They'd usually spent time, just the seven of them, during Halloweens and Thanksgivings. But never Christmases or New Years. It was a bit thrilling to see all three Trojan leaders - Robert, Jaimie and Chris - present in one room, along with their loyal helpers. Jeremy with his equally dangerous fiancée, Scarlett who joined the gang two years before Chris. The Trojan's quiet and brooding doctor, sometimes made use of his talents in tinkering around machines, Mark. And of course, Evans, Trojan's courageous delivery guy who had experienced much more brutallity than Chris. They were the assets of the small organisation, without them, the whole Trojan would fall after so many years of existence. They never accepted nor offered anyone into their circle anymore. Too risky. And this plan they had, were their biggest.

Evans chipped in, settling himself on one of the comfy sofas by the book rack, "You should've seen Hems' reaction when he got kicked. Really... Priceless!"

"Ooh! Which part?" Robert laughed, fingers drumming on his armrests expectantly.

"Groin!"

They whistled at him, shouting their sarcastic apologies. Laughing and delighting at the furious red creeping on Chris' cheeks, and cackled some more on how Chris involuntarily stuttered when asked if his privates were bruised. The warm company, this strange close-knit seven members of the Trojan, enjoyed picking and made fun of their baby leader. Feeling quite exceptional at the thought that they were the few people who were honoured to see Chris' soft side - this open, kid like. Though well-built and bore a handsome face, dreamy cerulean eyes and his charming smile; always so pensive about the little things and extremely witty in every situation he placed himself in, Chris also had the tendency of being adorable shy. Being the youngest in the group, a few years younger than Scarlett, they doted and pretended like he was an eight year old boy - and Chris didn't mind being treated that way. It was alright to feel a bit childish at times.

Taken in by Robert and Jaimie on that very night, how he saved what was left of the Trojan unassisted and wiped out their newly formed opposition, he looked terrifyingly like some psychotic killer shooting his rifle. ' _How could they leave this **parasite** to us?_ ' was the first sentence they heard from him. Jaimie figured Chris hadn't had a good childhood, Robert thought he was abused. With just a look through Jaimie's eyes, when she asked him to let go of his rifle, he let it dropped to the ground - sank on his knees and cried like it was his first time shedding his tears. He was still a kid that night. Robert was the second to remind him that it was okay to feel a little more human, it was okay to smile and cry and laugh. The rest felt the need to protect this traumatized boy, shelter him as he was still too young to face this kind of world. And thus, Robert and Mark treated him like a son; Jaimie, Evans and Jeremy saw him like a long-lost brother. Whilst Scarlett jokingly dubbed him like a sweet boyfriend much to Jeremy's chagrin.

Jeremy plopped down next to his fiancée, teasing and poking on Chris' rib who was gulping down his water, "Are you sure your thing's not bruised? You'll be a laughing stock, man."

"He was a little depressed about it on the way here. Or maybe because he puked his lunch out... in my car," Evans sighed, then shuddered. "My lavender's not gonna top that smell for weeks. Ow!"

He rubbed his sore forehead, the spot where Chris had just thrown his empty water bottle at, annoyed at Jeremy's laugh. Evans then handed Scarlett her purse hidden behind the bookshelf, sending Chris a glare. Mark, as quiet as he was, handled the bug and the GPS with care - making sure it was still connected to the cell phone - and moved to the empty chair beside Robert by the three computer screens.

Fixing on the middle screen, Robert punched in a few numbers on his keyboard and clicked his tongue, "You should get Mark to check it out, honey. Don't want you to get a 'hard-on' later!"

But when their little Hemmy meant business...

"Shut it," Chris swallowed down his embarrassment as he dug into his pocket, searching for the card. He tossed the rectangular key to Robert, and took the empty seat beside Scarlett who was rummaging in her bag. "We've lost two hours of our scheduled time. Plus that short car chase... It could be the police, it could be Rourke's. Anyone, really. Best to change our plan, we can't afford to get caught by anyone right now."

...And when Chris "the Boss" Hemsworth meant business, the whole room went dead quiet.

Their original plan was a simple task of stealing and hacking, then return back the card-key after they retrieved back their treasures and had Rourke's money wiped clean. But now, with their precious two hours scrapped, no time to restore the card and just less than a few hours before Rourke's men escalate in numbers sometime before midnight - they might have to think and use an alternate route out.

"We're already ahead of you, Hemmy," Scarlett said, tossing a flash drive to Robert who caught it instantly. She took out her handheld, showing him a security page like he'd seen in the Matrix, pixelated numbers flowing down on top of the screen. "Just a slight change though. It seems like Rourke's bank security system is a bit complicated than we thought. I'm guessing that Weaving's the one who put up these codes. Smart move. We may have to hack while we're inside."

"Inside?" 

"Two of the vaults are like control rooms, basically he has a good grip on taking note of his wealth and so-called 'empire'. It'd be too dangerous to place his control at home. And so, the vaults are a perfect place to store something like this," she replied. 

Chris huffed, Rourke was like a two-faced maniac. A selfish maniac. "But too smart though with the card-key. That's one big mistake."

Robert hummed, maximising three of Rourke's security cameras he'd hacked. Two of which showed the ten circular vaults before a locked entrance, the other displayed countless pathways - he could barely make out through the dim lights. "And as you already know, Rourke intentionally designed the place to look like some modern-day crypt. So, don't be surprised if you're caught in some sort of labyrinth. Not all of his dogs are allowed to go down there." He zoomed in on one blurred symbol on the wall on the pathways, shaped lightly like an eagle. "You have to keep track on a very distinct eagle. Each eagle is different from the other, so the one you'll have to go through is the one with three spikes behind the bird's head."

"But those eagles weren't there before, what the hell happened?" Chris frowned.

"Yeah, well... We got screwed and somebody's clearly messing with us," Robert sighed. "It's a good thing you're stuck in that jail for two hours. Else we wouldn't have noticed this, but no because i'm very attentive in this thing, and Rourke could have seen you... If we decided to go along with our plan A."

Mark questioned as he connected the wires of the police's GPS to his computer, tapping away, "Do you think someone noticed? Maybe our intel's trying to lure us to Rourke's?"

"No, Jon's never one with tricks. It would've been too obvious if he was lying in the first place," Jaimie answered, jumping a little when her walkie buzzed.

Chris thought, if Jon was never with tricks, how the hell did he know about Trojan's plan to mess with Rourke?

He breathed out - glancing at the security cameras, catching the numbers on each vault, the GPS where Mark was currently trying to use to break into the police's encrypted system, and Scarlett's handheld which still showed the complex security page. The mission would take them approximately half an hour, they only need to take back the painite, the horseman and steal something or Rourke's. Which in this case, his money. Jaimie would clean their trace both if they failed or succeed. People would call this as revenge. The Trojan was never one for infiltration, never suit to be spies, too modern for Robert and Mark's retro taste. The Trojan's old style of revenge was to bust in the front doors and shoot the crap out of their enemies. Like real Italian Mafias in the movies and violent documentaries, all slow motion. Chris decided that it would be best to put their hobbies to a good use. Chris was known for his quickness, his knack in parkour and brawling, Scarlett's hobby to hack and snoop around, Mark and Robert the two intelligence experts, Jaimie's a former assassin who could easily wipe all of her trace. The Trojan's moving on to what Jeremy called, 'modernisation'.

"Okay... Jon said the horseman is in vault 8, right?" Chris turned to Jaimie who nodded her head. Pointing at the middle screen, to a much further vault where he would go. "So the painite should be in the same vault. What about the Rourke's computer system?"

"5 and 10, i kinda root my way into the main security before i'm stuck with this page. Seems like the powerful Rourke keeps all his belongings in there," Scarlett grinned, delighted at the sparked realization that popped with her fellow members.

"No way... The weapons?" Evans raised an eyebrow.

"Mackie's finest," she ended with a smirk.

"Ah, my baby knows everything..."

Eight days before Chris' intentional arrest and stumble on his card-key fortune from the generous lady luck, the Trojan's spies - Scarlett and Ray - informed him that Rourke was spotted negotiating a deal with a group of belligerent Russian dealers at Wyndham Grand. Anthony Mackie, the young and infamous trader raised in Russia, a tactful black marketeer and an illegal manufacturer of firearms, agreed to co-operate with Rourke. On the same day, an hour after Scarlett reported to him, Chris eavesdropped on Rourke's chatting dogs, disguised himself as a homeless bum passing with his trolley in Rourke's domain. He found out that Mackie's alliance with Rourke involved a fragile condition. An arrangement that kindled Chris' interest. Something to do with storing his stocks of weapons, and making use of Rourke's underground channels in Chicago to market his goods much easily. And in return, Rourke's stint of smuggling his drugs to mother Russia. The young Trojan had the desire to sabotage their 'barter trade', and practically mess around their business relationship but he received little information about the location of the storage. It never crossed him that Rourke would store them in the same place. Looking back at the GPS, satisfaction brushed against him, it proved to be a lot useful.

Mackie's signature firearms, threat to the underworld gangs all over the world, quiet when the bullet was discharged, accurate hit, the impact was great. Chris could already sense, Rourke was buying fear from Mackie. As if they could be easily bought and sold. It was obvious that the man didn't intend to make a new stint out of re-selling Mackie's weapons. He intended to use them against his rivals - and the Trojan was on top of his list. It was like rewinding back their old history over and over again. Gunsmithing their own guns, their own bullets. Their own explosives. It was a good stroke indeed when Chris encountered a suspicious exchange between his nemesis and a woman - that card-key - ' _Hmm... Looks important_ '. And proceeded to follow them to an industrial storage building owned by Weaving, and sighted a medium-sized glass case of Hopkins' black horseman being brought down an elevator. Chris quickly planned out his way and done an enjoyable trouble of swapping the glassy card.

The death of Robert's wife, four years ago, sparked the intense rivalry between the two groups in Chicago. Rourke had only known Jaimie and Robert only, as Chris' existence with the Trojan was completely veiled by Robert. Whilst Chris was hidden, that Rourke didn't know how he looked like, he investigated that the rivalry between Rourke's empire and the Trojan was caused by a mysterious middle man. This stranger led Sebastian, the murderer, to Robert's wife, and also the same person who sold Chris' family's identity to the mercy of Rourke's men. They hadn't identified the culprit yet, but Chris had the feeling they would be very soon. Rourke's empire had been setting on the Trojan's demise, chasing them to their lowest. With Chris as their new leader, he maintained the now small group under a deceptive submission to Rourke. Best to put up a low profile front, but kept their murderous intention for vengeance growing.

"So, we're up for sabotage?" Jeremy asked, keeping track of their last minute plan B. "It's like killing two birds with one stone. Plus Weaving, so there's three."

Robert answered as he uploaded a virus into Scarlett's flash drive, "Well... Weaving wouldn't exactly be affected by this, you see. He placed himself pretty good with government officials. Coincidentally, Rourke's not gonna be the police's primary suspect. Do expect some good bribing from him."

And that was why they planned to cut Rourke off from his money. No cheques, no bribe, off to prison. Peace.

"Let me remind you guys real quick, the warehouse's security will double by nine-thirty. Jon did say Rourke and Weaving are expecting someone from Florence, so we have to do this quick," Jaimie told them, turning to Chris. "It's Tucci."

Tucci, 'Stanley' Tucci, a wholesaler and Florence's major conduit of heroin smuggling. Rourke did have good fortunes making money out of his drugs, Tucci could probably want an access to that. With the fact that Tucci had various channels all over the world. Advantage to both sides.

"Drugs, huh? Why is coming here?" he frowned, crossing his arms.

"Jon's kinda mum on that," Jaimie winced.

Mark spoke after a while, as if repeating his suspicion over their mole. "Can we really trust him? I mean, he's one of Rourke's."

"I'll take care of that," Chris smiled at the doctor, tensing off his worries. "He's a bit suspicious. Hell, everyone's suspicious. First, it was Weaving. Then Mackie, and now Tucci?"

"Something's up his sleeve," the spy murmured, obvious that she was anxious as the rest of them. "And i don't like it."

Robert who was busy tapping on his keyboard, swiped the card-key on a scanner and downloaded the card's computer system in - there would be a lot of work to understand the riddles of Rourke's technologies. But with a genius like Robert, they could hack through anything. It was normal for a marketeer to be protective over their merchandise. They would go through many things for security. Scarlett sent him the security page, with the system and the security now in their hands, they only need to punch in the correct numbers to gain access to Rourke's money in his banks. Very tough work.

Chris checked the ticking time on the wall, thirty-five minutes to nine. Clearing his throat, shaking the dizziness out of his head, he breathed in, "Okay, to sum everything up. We have three in our to-do list. Get back the horseman, our painite and 'steal' all of Rourke's money. By 'stealing', i mean, hacking. A certain Mr. Skarsgard will help us channel the money out. So we don't have to worry about that." He then nodded at Robert, "Call it."

"Right, since we don't have much time, we'll use the sewer to escape. Hemmy and Scarlett, Jon will help you get in. There's a secret 'doorway' to the sewer in vault 4, use the route to the stadium to get out and don't complain about the smell," the first boss said, tossing back the card to Chris and the flash drive to Scarlett. "And don't get lost down there. Jeremy, you'll be on the look out with Ray and Zach. Report to us if there's anything. Jaimie and Evans, there's a manhole near Soldier Field stadium, you two wait there for the kids. Me and Mark will be working on doubling the cameras, hack into Rourke's system once we get everything up."

"What about the GPS?" Evans asked. "I thought we're gonna use it to sabotage or something."

Mark, who was absorbed with the police's encrypted system, replied him. "Zach will relay the altered signal from the decoys back to this GPS once Hems is inside. The police's no longer chasing them, but it is possible they're still keeping track of the decoys."

"Weaving has ties with the government, the police has ties with the whole media. Give the GPS a ring once, chaos and corruption will happen. No matter how much money Rourke is willing to pay them to shut up," Chris explained. In his mind, he had to do something about the drug in his system. He could ask Mark about it later.

The GPS though, a publicity to 'advertise' Rourke's violence.

Jeremy whistled, "Don't mess with our little Hemmy. You know what this feels like? Some kind of 007 stuff."

"Be glad he's always on his good side," Jaimie chuckled.

"He would've eaten you if he's not much of a sport," Robert tossed a crumpled paper at the watchdog's head.

Another buzz on Jaimie's walkie interrupted them, a muffled voice vibrating through her small device, it was Jon's. " _The parcels are ready. Your queue?_ "

She snapped her fingers - time to rock and roll - and they immediately went about their respective tasks. Robert on his computer, Mark who turned to break the GPS, both Jeremy and Scarlett followed Evans out of the boardroom when he rushed to help Chris who was about to spew out his vomit. Damn allergies, of all nights. Jaimie shook her head, glancing at Mark who sighed in worry as she caught Robert's car key he tossed at her, closing the door behind. Her faded voice, answering Jon, slowly disappeared. "Hems and Scarlett's on their way. Stand by."

Robert breathed heavily, rubbing a hand down his face. The very moment Chris told him about the painite's location, his worries were nearly gone. His sadness and cries all spent, he could finally be reunited with the Trojan's heirloom. But he couldn't stop thinking all the negatives once they retrieved back their crystal. Robert gave full attention to the three screens in front, Rourke's security cameras were surprisingly easy to access in - two runners guarding the secret shaft, seven outside, four inside. Though the vaults were dependent only on CCTVs and the card-key throughout the days he observed. Then, Mark's obvious worry written on his feature disturbed him. "He'll be alright, doc. The kid told me he could handle it... For now."

"Well, the doctor in my head is telling me he couldn't... Don't you remember what happened the last time he tried doing cocaine? He was on fever the next day, how high was it? 40.1? 42? And he went... _insane_ ," he frowned. That sounded quite bad now that he'd spoken it out loud. It was just a simple curiosity, Chris was still a kid at heart, and he was just adorable. Just a very tiny amount, and his fever didn't last for days. Thanks to Jeremy.

"Delirious sounds more appropriate. If Evans is with him, everything will--"

"He got infected too."

A loud crash startled them outside, followed by the young Trojan's voice. He must've landed on something. Rims, maybe. ' _How's my god of thunder? I missed you, baby!_ ' And Evans' voice replaced him not a second more, ' _Hems! I told you not to kiss the exhaust pipe!_ ' Followed by a faint struggle, another crash and Jeremy's gleeful laugh.

Mark raised his eyebrows at Robert, told you so, before tickering back to the device. The leader cleared his throat, feeling a bit irked. "We should give him that awful fruit punch Jeremy made this morning, works wonders on everyone!"

"Yeah, puked the crap out of Ray though," the doctor chuckled.

After a few seconds pause, he discovered two micro-chips in the small tracker. The police's was the first one he got, and had their poorly encrypted system in hacking process. But the second one, until now did he discover it, made him suspect a lot of things. Turning to his fellow leader, he showed it to him, which made the man frown.

"I don't think its the police's..."

*

One of the five farthest industrial warehouses in the area, belonged to Illinois' leading commercial company, the Weaving Industries. Storage for their rare, imported timbers, goods and expensive furniture. The CEO of the company was unfortunately one of Rourke's right-hand men, Hugo Weaving. The media would say, Weaving was open and a victim to potential threats of rival companies. The bystanders, too kindly enough to ignore why he put up so much security. But only the Trojan knew what he hid beneath those stiff facade. He would have seven of Rourke's young runners to dress up as securities every night, stand on guard at the front and back entrance of the warehouse. Doors locked, cameras placed in and out of the building, the security was quite tight - now that they were armed with weapons. Rourke's dogs were all elegant looking criminals, a huge difference when compared with the Trojan. Guns gripped on their hands, ring-shaped earpiece on their ears, taking note on orders. They continuously scanned their surroundings, checking their teams on duty both far and near, and cautiously searched for oddities of the cold, spring night. A cargo truck with a pass from the guards parked to one of the mechanical entrances, unloading parcels in boxes of Rourke's purchased drugs.

At that very moment, the seven intimidating, muscular guards had made a very dangerous slip.

Unconscious men laid wasted on a rooftop near the collection of warehouses, tall enough not to get spotted. Bottles of empty alcohols rolling on the floor, two out of the five sleeping runners were bare and naked. Clothes long stripped and stolen. One earpiece missing. Jeremy's signature of fun. He looked through his binoculars at the oblivious seven guards, and popped his chewed gum as he followed the cargo truck passing the disguised runners easily. A similar earpiece was tucked on his right ear, listening to the guards' small exchange. ' _Jon's here, parcels at the loading area. Stand by'. 'Roger that'_. Highly valuable information. Changing to thermal, nothing weird going on inside. Probably not suspecting anyone yet. Ray was on high alert on the other side, attention mainly the road. Scoping the cars driving in and out with his sniper, he puffed out smokes of his cigarette. And Zach, munching a candy and seated on a wooden crate with his own handheld, kept track of his still running decoy cars. He traced back the GPS's signal, the police still observing them. Maybe waiting for a big slip somewhere close. Not far from them, a black van was parked on the lot outside the stadium. A manhole beside it, open. Evans and Chris' decoy were already waiting in the sewer, and Jaimie on the driver seat, checked the time - they were a quarter to nine early.

The cargo driver, Jon, unlocked a door by the mechanical entrance, taking a short glimpse at a camera placed above him. It flicked, the security's been hacked and doubled. He breathed out quietly, checking sideways and was relieved that the four guards were on the other side of the warehouse - focusing on the elevator, talking leisurely of some chicks at a brothel. Dragging up the cargo's hatch, the coast is clear, he whispered. Chris, dressed in a comfortable black suit, dropped out the cargo, followed by Scarlett in black. While the youngest Trojan helped Jon unloading the fifty crates into a baggage trolley cabled to a golf cart, Scarlett opened up one box, buried herself among the packets of heroin along with their backpack and a briefcase.

Outside, Jeremy hummed quietly. Reporting to Robert, he tossed the ring-shaped earpiece to Zach, "They're in. Counting the time."

"Ten minutes to nine," Zach replied, setting up his timer.

Jon swallowed, wiping the sweat covering his forehead. He clearly didn't expect to go this far to betray his own boss. "Alright... Rourke expects his drugs safe downstairs, store 3. Tucci will be coming at exactly nine-thirty. But you have to be quick. Get Rourke's merchandise downstairs, do whatever that you've planned and get out. I'll clean up your mess."

"Yeah, sure," Chris said, ruffling his hair as he let his bangs framing his sweet face. And slipped on a certain ring-shaped earpiece Jeremy 'found' for him.

They made a short drive around the huge warehouse, Chris checked the box where Scarlett hid in, topped by two crates weighed two kilograms each. He hoped she didn't suffocate in there. Cameras flicked their lights before they got into its line of sight. Robert's doing his work, pasting the Trojan's decoy to Chris'. The gang couldn't afford to lose their young leader if he was caught by Rourke. What happened to Robert's wife and Hopkins, they didn't want the same thing happened to Chris. Or worse. Passing Weaving's countless blocks of unknown stocks packed in shelves, they finally arrived beside a unit labelled '86' where three of the guards stood waiting for them, in front of the only 'door' downstairs.

One of the guards, the person in charge of handling a peaceful operation before Tucci arrived, came up to them. A smirk on his face, seemingly friendly with Jon. "Yo, Jon! Didn't know tonight's your turn, man! Word is Boss' buying bulks of those heroin for some experiment," he clicked his tongue, nodding his head at Chris whom he thought a rookie to Rourke's empire. "Huge responsibility, dude."

Jon got off the golf cart, Chris taking his place on the driver seat. He answered casually, replacing his formerly anxious look when with Chris into a smug looking thug. "I got raised quicker than you, that's why. Listen, buddy, i need your help with something." Taking out a note from his pocket, "Weaving asked me to collect his client's stocks at unit 2, something to do with Pace's gift. But these crates needed to be sent downstairs. So..."

Pace, huh, Chris thought to himself. _First, it was Weaving. Then Mackie, and now Tucci?_ And the fourth conspirator with Rourke was Lee Pace. Britain's most violent underground organization, the Pace cartel, whose businesses were mainly manufacturing new drugs in London. To be sold all around the world. What were they all aiming for apart from selling?

"You're always like this, man. Sometimes i wonder how you even got promoted," the man groaned, flailed his hand as if shooing Jon off with his business. He beckoned at Chris to proceed, while he talked with Jon about unit 2 which was a bit far from unit 86. The young Trojan saluted, and drove to the elevator as was ordered. It was like driving a Mario cart, with squeaky honks and colours of the rainbow on his path. Pass the remaining two guards, bulky and a bit irritating, the person in charge called out to him as he pushed the down button. "Hey, kid! Be quick but very careful about those crates, yeah? Tucci's coming to collect them around nine! My head's on the line here, you hear me!"

"Yeah, yeah," Chris called back, waiting for the doors to close, waving his hand at the man. The poor guy was just that desperate to get promoted, so many challenges in his circle maybe. Once the elevator lurched down, Chris quickly moved the two crates to the side, knocking lightly on Scarlett's box. It was time. With a huff, taking deep breaths of fresher air in, she slipped out from the box - taking along the backpack and the briefcase. Chris shrugged off his jacket and the tie, dumping everything into the pack and caught the flashlight Scarlett threw at him. As the lift stopped, couple metres below to the underground area where Rourke built his vaults on the left, they were welcomed with numbered closed stores, darkness and pathways. They noted on the spectral surrounding, dim lights on the ceilings, dark pathways and heavy atmosphere. It really was like a crypt, except that it wasn't under someone's grave.

Scarlett quietly said, trying to amuse herself, "I feel like we're some treasure hunters or something... Little ironic considering we're a part of a nasty Chicago gang." She went off to find the eagle on the left side of the underground, flashlight shone at the concrete walls, searching for the faded drawing.

"I'd laugh if you dub this thing as 'mission impossible'," Chris replied with a grin, driving the golf cart and the baggage trolley following behind, to the store Jon told him. Chris' job for now was to wait for Scarlett to bring in the decoy, just to make sure the guards wouldn't grow suspicious of his 'lateness' downstairs. Robert did say that he didn't want any victims today, and this was the closest Chris could think of. Finding the designated room, he checked the time, four minutes to nine. He quickly unloaded the boxes in as Scarlett made her way through a dark corridor of the eagle with three spikes. Her flashlight beamed, observing the strong arched, concave ceiling.

Darkness spiralling at the front, she was surprised at the spark when she shone her flashlight against a metal on the other end. And was finally welcomed with a metal hatch to Rourke's vaults. Spotted a scanner beside the door, Scarlett swiped the card-key across and punched in a series of numbers. Clacking sounds of locks relieved her tension that got on her nerves. And there they were. The vaults. She immediately ran to vault 4, turning the wheel open, breathing in the smell of Mackie's distinct guns and opened up a small entry on the floor, hidden beneath boxes. When she pulled the handle up, grimacing at the pungent sewer smell as their decoy climbed up. She told him to get to Chris, and he immediately went.

Chris was just finishing stacking the boxes in store 3, the decoy joined him, telling the young Trojan that he would take over. "Be careful out there. Just ring to Jon, then you'll get out. Okay?"

The decoy nodded, taking the driver seat, slipped on Chris' earpiece and drove to the elevator. Chris watched him go, and jogged to the vaults. A faint stench blew pass him when he stepped in, but ignored it. He found Scarlett in vault 5, one of the two hatches smaller than the rest. It was small like a control room and he presumed vault 10 looked the same. With the help of Robert on the other side, she instantly hacked into Rourke's security, finding it much easier once inside and relayed all information to Robert. Quickly went about the same process in number 10, she took out her flash drive and uploaded Robert's Trojan virus, to simultaneously deplete all of Rourke's money and channel them to Skarsgard. Not much time left. Chris, in the meantime, closed the metal entrance, locking the hatch from the inside. He then spent his seconds breaking the scanner open. Connecting Evans' volatile makeshift cable into Scarlett's handheld and a small slot on the scanning device. The fake card that mistress possessed right now was sure to create an even more grave qualm from Rourke, and Robert had a quick solution to avoid that. Before Chris' arrest, Robert uploaded a similar yet different computer system into the fake card. And now, Chris had to upload the same system into the scanner so that by the time the fake card was used, the scanner would function normally and could read the fake numbers on the card-key.

The young Trojan worked his way through to gain access into the scanner security, tapping a few numbers and selected 'yes'. He couldn't go through that hatch anymore, finding it tightly bolted. Chris took their briefcase resting by the scanner, sliding to vault 8 and sagged in relief when the wheel easily opened. He smirked at Hopkins' black horseman stored lavishly in a case in front of him, screaming at him to be taken away. Polished, light and expensive. Jackpot, he murmured. Opening up the briefcase, an identical copy of the horseman, same weight filled with hard cement, same design and switched the heirloom piece carefully. After this, he would go search for Hopkins' daughter. Securing the horseman in the briefcase, Chris moved to check the few drawers. At first luck, the brooch that once belonged to the Trojan smiled at him. The silver dragon encircling the painite cystal of the size of his thumb, beautiful and tempting. Finally, after four years of endless searching, the painite's finally in front of his eyes.

As Chris rummaged through his pocket, Robert's saddening voice echoed in his mind. Sounded really glad. ' _You do?_ '

_'Yeah.'_

_'How was it?'_

_'Still the same'._

Between his two fingers, was an exact copy of the painite crystal Evans made out of ruby and plastic. He plucked the glowing rouge out from the silver dragon's grasp, and switched the crystal. It was a lot heavier than he thought. ' _So many blood spilled, fighting for this painite. People greed over it._ ' Hopkins' last reminder to him before Chris found him headless in his home. After this, the future for this crystal in Trojan's hands seemed so dull, and blurry. Tucking it safely in a small ring box he brought in his pocket, Chris placed the copy back in its small casing and closed the drawer. Rourke might not notice the horseman and the painite replaced, though he would fume himself out at his depleting money. Chris would bet, the first thing that popped inside Rourke's mind at the money gone, was a bad deal with bankers. Bringing the now heavy briefcase out from the vault, shutting it behind him, he heard Scarlett called for him. She was still occupied in vault 10, it seemed. When he met her inside, he found her in a middle of an unpredicted discovery. Something far more worse.

Scarlett spared him a worried look. Rourke was setting a 'project'. A project that involved all turfs in Illinois, alliance with major criminal masterminds, countless targets needed to be killed. Drugs. Prostitution. Fear. Control. Propaganda. Bribery. Threat. And politics. It could only mean one thing.

"...He's setting up a war," Chris narrowed his eyes, following the ongoing list of people who went mysteriously disappeared for the last three years. There were even women and children murdered on Rourke's runners bucket list. A death list. Government and security details, the world's black history, politicians' darkest secrets. Unseen and unreleased footages stolen from the media. Folder upon folders of secrets and answers to muddled questions. Rourke had everything.

Scarlett too, was in shock. "We should get this to Robert. Do you think it could be the reason why Rourke made the deal with Mackie? And Tucci too... Now that i think about it, Tucci has an agreement with someone. I can't think of his name."

"It's Pace, he's the fourth one." Chris then turned to her, a possibility popped in his mind. "Maybe, just maybe... Rourke's planning to declare a war, from the inside out? Propaganda, and all those shit. People against society. He's using, emotions. Fear, aggressiveness. Sadness..."

"Psychological terms, you mean? Through what, drugs?"

"Pace is known to manufacture new drugs, Tucci's involved with him too... And Rourke. It's the simplest method of stimulation nowadays, to cause up a ruckus from just a small problem. Or through lobotomy," Chris said, hand clenched tightly on the briefcase handle. "Either way... It's still too early to make an assumption. C'mon, we gotta get out of here."

She paused, "What about the GPS?"

"Switch it on."

Because the GPS was the Trojan's war declaration. Messing things around, making it harder for Rourke.

While Scarlett copied everything into her drive, and activating the police's waiting GPS Mark prepared for them - though he did say he had something to discuss with them after the mission - Chris finally noticed how the middle camera situated more to vault 6 than the rest. Glancing back and forth, from the three cameras and the ten vaults, the angles were a bit different. Like vault 6 held something very important. He frowned, "Scar? What's in vault 6?"

"Mackie's weapons, probably,"she answered him, placing the device on the keyboard. To sabotage Rourke and his right-hand merry men, it'd be nice to call the police instead. Include the third party, Robert couldn't wait to see the media's reaction. Two-faced Trojan, the gang never sided anyone, ever since four years ago. Helping the stagnant police to take Rourke down, but took something in return. The police would dub the Trojan as the good guys now, hopefully, but still dangerous. This little job Chris and Scarlett took, would determine the police's trust on them - thus, letting Chris off the hook, and out of their wanted list. And from there, let the media decide if Rourke was the good man they portrayed him as to the society or a scourge.

When Scarlett walked out, pushing vault 10's door closed, she stopped. Sniffed, then grimaced. "Did you smell that?"

*

"Shit..." Ray cursed, dropping his newly lit cigarette on the pavement below. His trained eye focused through his scope, watching and following a train of sleek expensive cars driving into the compound. "Shit. Shit. Shit. It's Rourke!" he muttered, jolting up from his spot. He gave a ring to Jaimie on the other side who later told them to make their exit, and took over Zach's task of 'calling' the police through the now activated GPS.

Zach quickly listened to the guards' chaotic banters through the ring-shaped comms, something about their doubled security and then, there was Tucci. Tucci arrived early. And that Rourke was with him, and Mackie. And the mistress Chris stole the card-key from. They were fifteen minutes early, or maybe because they were just punctual enough. Something about had an early business tomorrow's morning, before getting back to retrieve a gift. Jeremy reported to both Robert and Chris, shoving his binoculars into his pack and out the rooftop, "Red, red...! Tucci's here. Hemmy, get out of there!"

*

"I did smell it when i first got here... Thought it was the sewer," Chris winced, staring at the water marks below the vault's door. Judging from its turning colours, it could've been there for years. It could be another vault leading to an open sewer like number 4. Or it could be something else hidden behind that door.

Both traded looks, both very curious as to what was stored inside. Something extremely foul roused their attention, flaring their nostrils. This pungent odour whiffed from vault 6. Fuck it, Chris cussed, handing the briefcase to Scarlett as he worked on the vault's door. It didn't seem to have been visited for quite a while. The wheel was rusted shut, left unopened for years. He went to one side, kicking twice on the wheel to turn, and it miraculously spinned. Maybe they could spare a bit more time, anxious to see what kind of merchandise Rourke stored this smelly. With the sound of a soft 'click', sprinkles of dust and metal rust went flying. And there came the unbearable stench. Scarlett covered her nose, so did Chris.

Opening the door slightly, they were greeted by the unexpected. Crowds and crowds of decomposed corpses, melted to the rotten bones. The vault, with no radiator, trapped the heat inside. Some were mummified, others were left to a pool of green-ish rotten flesh. Guts sputtered open and out their abdomens, intestines hanging disgustingly from the safety of their slimy flesh and prickling skin. Chests ripped, heads smashed, empty skull. Organs missing. Surgery table in the middle of the mess, surgical tools. A morgue. There could be fifty packed in this vault, swelling with human remains and waste. Many more at one corner, packed and crushed. Defiled and beheaded. Left abandoned in this hell like grave.

The sight of these poor, dead people...

"...Oh my god," Scarlett breathed. She was shaking, eyes tearing, vault 6 was like a mess of red and black. And Chris fixed a saddened gaze on two among the many corpses. A mother and her child. The mother was shot to her death, had her vital organs stolen. The baby, small and crumpled, was still cradled in her mother's broken arms. Unable to live long maybe a few days, much less to open its eyes to see ther mother's face, remained an infant. The world's never a fair place, Chris told himself over and over again.

Then, Chris' walkie buckled on Scarlett's belt buzzed, startling the two of them. She answered as Jeremy hurriedly reported to them, as if he was running, _"Red, red...! Tucci's here. Hemmy, get out of there!"_ And a sudden blaring noise jumped them, the warehouse's main entrance was opened. "Fuck...!" Chris frantically took out a camera from the backpack hoisted behind Scarlett, "Scar, get the GPS back..."

"What?"

"The GPS, get it back," Chris muttered, with a face so grim she couldn't recognise. Scarlett did what he tell her to, opening back vault 10's door and disabled the GPS. He realised, from these corpses, the GPS wouldn't even make a dent to overthrow Rourke. It wouldn't affect the media. This violence, was a part of their gang feud. None, was allowed to interrupt. Chris captured pictures of the corpses for Robert whom he knew was watching through the vaults' security cameras. Maybe they could find clues to Rourke's new stint with marketing drugs. One, just one that caught his attention from their open abdomens. They were all victims of forced smuggling.

Scarlett called out, "Hemmy, c'mon!" The briefcase in her hand, going inside vault 4. Chris closed vault 6's door, pushing with all his might until it finally locked on its own again. He could imagine, all the victims inside, screamed out at the top of their lungs, trying in vein for mercy and help. His eyes were threatening to cry, why? Just why was he on the verge to cry? The sight reduced him to nothing but remembering his past. Not so long ago did he face the same nightmare. Huddled in his mother and father's last embrace before everything was simply taken away. His brothers...

Chris heard the familiar droning of the elevator outside as he shut vault 4's door behind him, waiting for it to lock first before gathering the boxes that secluded the entry to the sewer. This entry was Rourke's channel to relocate his weapons if needed, but left forgotten. Footing on the ledge, safely closed the entry above his head and locked it. He dropped down, dizzy. He panted and gasped, catching his breath and stashed the camera into his pocket. Wiping the sweat forming on his forehead with his sleeves, he spotted Scarlett retching. Contents in her stomach out, after taking full sight of those corpses. As they mustered up their energy, Chris insisted on handling the backpack and the briefcase, understanding that perhaps he was the only one capable of sprinting to their escape checkpoint at the moment. But Chris was having none of that, he ushered Scarlett to follow him quickly, taking her hand and ran. Checking his watch as they go, at least they succeeded in retrieving the horseman and the painite, no matter how punctual Rourke and Tucci were. Round a corner, sewer water splashed on their running feet. Glad that the sewer smell was admittedly much better to breathe in than that vault. Turning to a left, forward, then right and forward, they finally found Evans who was waiting for them.

"Hurry!" he waved at them to keep going, meeting them half-way and take hold of the heavy briefcase.

Scarlett went up first - forcing her tired legs, then Chris followed by Evans. Out the manhole and quickly into the van, Evans slid the heavy lid back to its place and jumped into the van's passenger seat as Jaimie drove away. They escaped. Sheer curiosity didn't do much. Vault 6 was Rourke's personal morgue for his play toys, not built for the victims' waiting storage for burial nor cremate, just simply thrown there to rot. This was their first time seeing such hell, even a violent punk of some street gangs would get scared shitless at the corpses. Rourke's indifference and cruelty had peaked. Scarlett slumped down, resting her head on the backpack Chris had flung when he rushed in, and watched the young leader, rubbing his teary red eyes. Too stubborn not to cry. Why? She wanted to ask what was wrong, why did he tell her to take back the sabotage plan. But decided against it. Chris never did tell them anything about his past, except that he'd never own a bed for himself. And never liked Christmases.

Nine-thirty, cold night of late Spring, the Trojan's van was already out from the harbor's area. Through their two walkies, it seemed that Jeremy and the others had safely escaped. Skarsgard was currently rooting in Rourke's money into Trojan's safe. Scarlett turned off Chris' walkie on her belt, shutting her eyes, trying to flush the images of dead humans. Their next safehouse would be at Jaimie's mansion, where most of them stayed and the place they were heading. Another couple of minutes, fifteen maybe to get there. Jaimie glanced at the rear-view and gestured Evans to take over driving the van. She crouched back to where Chris sat, brushing her hand at Scarlett's open palm, a silent assurance of 'you're safe'. But she was more worried about Chris, who hid his head beneath his muscled arms, he was in a troubled mess. Then, Ray's voice buzzed through her walkie, " _The GPS was disabled. Sabotaging Rourke is a failure_." It was never like Chris to be so stressed. He was usually composed.

"Hemmy?" Jaimie touched his shoulder, he flinched. "Honey, are you okay?"

Honey, how motherly that sounded.

Chris gave the camera and the ring box containing the painite to her. Head hung low. Mumbling, Jaimie heard him saying, "Drop me at the workshop..."

It was a successful and nerve-wrecking retrieval, shocking discovery. Failed attempt at sabotage. A very traumatizing experience... For Chris.

*

Two hours later.

Evans rubbed down his exhausted face and sighed heavily. A slight headache came rushing in, so many information he couldn't digest at the moment. He just got out from Jaimie's mansion, listening in to Robert and Mark's findings of the pictures Chris took, why the young Trojan dropped the sabotage plan, Rourke's right-hand men and the possibility of a psychological war. Feud between gangs. Robert did say something about trying to get his hands on old footages of all security cameras in the warehouse from top to bottom. And if he could, in Weaving Industries too. Until then, Evans' current job was to go home and get some rest. Before that, he went off to find their baby leader Hemmy. Evans drove his sleek Mercedes through the night's light traffic, very busy people, as he headed to a certain someone's favourite location. That said someone's personal hiding place when something bothered his mind. Relatively two hours ago, he dropped Chris at Jeremy's workshop. Evans wanted to go with him, but the young Trojan shook his head and told him to consider the urgency of Trojan's treasures in the van more than the leader. It was like gold was more valuable than life.

He never expressed his feelings to anyone. He never showed it on his face. The only expression the whole Trojan had imprinted in their minds, was how young and traumatized Chris looked four years ago. And the same expression was there on his face before he turned away. No energy to hide. Chris borrowed one of their runners' jacket, got onto his motorcycle and sped out of sight.

No phones with him, nothing at all. Chris was completely unreachable at times like these. But Evans knew where he would go.

Chris' hiding place was located just a few blocks by the border of the Trojan's turf in Chicago, a grand five star hotel the gang extorted protection money from. But the Trojan kept their word on promising to guard the hotel safely, as Evans sighted their runners disguising themselves as hotel workers, perhaps working as their part-time job. It was the tallest building in their territory, as far as the eyes could see. And there he spotted Chris' Suzuki Hayabusa parked at the hotel's loading area. A few workers, non-Trojans, stuttered when they saw him. When Evans asked if they saw a Trojan somewhere, they quickly answered 'rooftop!'. Evans shook his head, he didn't mean to scare them, and gave them money to take care of the two vehicles and used the emergency lift to the top floor. The first few months getting to know Chris was a pain and a hassle. The young Trojan knew how to disappear, nobody saw him slipping out of his room in Jaimie's mansion, he was nowhere to be found. The old him refused to talk to anyone, except his fellow leaders and Hopkins, had several fights with their runners both verbal and brawl, but did all of his assignments extremely professional. Yet brutal. It was by luck did Evans come across Chris' hiding place, creeping behind him, following him up the rooftop. And there, Chris would resort to the kid his age. All innocent and lonely.

' _You always come here?_ ' Evans asked him once.

' _Yeah.'_

_'May i ask why?'_

Chris replied, he didn't bother to act difficult. ' _Cold stars. It's the closest._ ' And Evans didn't know what he meant.

When the elevator pinged open, Evans walked down the expensive, empty corridor of suites to the emergency exit. Taking the stairs in two up the rooftop, he took a deep breath in and opened the door. He immediately saw the Trojan's baby leader sitting quietly on the ground, hugging his knees, no doubt mesmerized by the stars. His helmet and a can of untouched soda resting beside him, the brand he loved, green apple with lemon soda. He called out, expecting Evans to arrive.

"Nice of you to join me, thought you wouldn't come."

At least Evans noted the happy ring in Chris' voice. He got cured by the stars maybe. Moving to the spot by Chris' can of soda, Evans sat down with a sigh. "Yeah, well... Don't take a habit out of this. My age's killing me."

"You're still 27. You got more in you," he grinned. "Plus, you're the one who exhausted yourself searching for me."

That's true, Evans thought. But it was because Chris was like a little brother to him. He didn't have the heart to leave him. Back when they got themselves involved with the Triads, it was the peak of their loyalty to one another. Evans went ahead their time to steal the documents, he thought he could prove to the young Trojan that he could handle the 'job' by himself, but his carelessness got Chris jumped. But Chris stayed behind for Evans when the Chinese caught them, saying something about not leaving a brother behind. Their partnership changed so fast ever since, from acquaintance to brotherhood. It was so precious, but there was still a boundary between them - their pasts. Even so, Evans had the urge to protect the young leader, where he knew Chris didn't need it and that he could take care of himself. 

Evans followed the other's affectionate gaze at the dark sky above them. What a sight, wavy and curvy. Glitters of bright white, with tinge of distinct colours. Stars blinking at them, so many crowded together. Millions to billions, countless of watching and burning stars. But no moon, must be on the other side of the planet. Times like these, the both of them wouldn't talk about work. Not a suitable topic to break the sacred silence. Evans wanted to talk about the stars, the constellations and all about space and planets. The universe, if he could. But lacked the knowledge, how depressing. He should have listened to his science teacher.

But most of all, he wanted to tell Chris, that the others were worried about him. 

"Wish i could be an astronaut," Chris spoke quietly, eyes still admiring the stars. Must be his childhood dream, this was probably the first time he tried to open up to Evans. "Float and walk on the moon. Rebel NASA and venture the other planets. Built a house somewhere out there. Home sweet home..."

Leaning back on his hands, legs stretched in front of him. Evans grinned, "I'd laugh if you do. Pipe dream, man." 

"Oh yeah?" the young leader smirked. "Care to explain why?"

"I'd be delighted~," he challenged back. "One, it's simply impossible. You need a buttload of oxygen to survive and years to reach Pluto, your 'dream house' can't take that much pressure in space, unless you have billions of dollars to build those spaceships. And! You're the 20 year old guy who spent most of his time changing his name to get into school illegally. Robert kept worrying his ass wondering if you'll get caught by our rivals or get noticed by the government. But when you got flying colours and skipped to university, you flunked out. Why? Because you couldn't take the pressure of being scolded by busty female professors."

"Okay, that's enough."

"Just imagine the people at NASA, all girls. Like at the clubs. Busty, sexy looking people with nothing but bikinis. Believe me, you can't take the heat."

"Shut up," he begged, hiding his face in his hands. Embarrassed, of course. 

Evans cackled, it was true that Chris indeed spent his early two years with the Trojan trying to study. It shocked everybody. Books pasted to his face as he worked on his missions, mainly rearranging Trojan's interest from brutal crimes to the much lesser ones. Chris was a nerd. But he flunked out of university because of Hopkins' unexpected death. Now, he felt guilty making a sport out of it, seemed like Chris didn't really mind. Evans was just trying to cheer him up. After a few seconds, his glee died out. He remembered Jaimie expressing her worried to him before he left. ' _I wonder what's wrong with Hemmy... There must be something about those corpses.'_

Staring back at the stars again, as if they were listening, Evans glanced at Chris' left hand that remained closed. And murmured, "The guys are worried about you."

"Kinda hard being the youngest. Spoiled a lot. Can't really get the hang of it sometimes," Chris admitted, running a hand through his hair.

"Yeah... But we're like this one very dysfunctional family, don't you think?"

"Can't do anything about it, can we? We're what's left of the Trojan, we have to look out for one another," the corner of his lips tugged into a smile. The one that didn't quite reach his eyes. He sighed, "There's nothing to worry about. I'm fine."

"You've been telling us the same thing since you joined the gang," Evans countered, sighing at the dejected puppy look Chris unconsciously showed. He looked down to the ground, Chris in his worn but clean sneakers, Evans in his loafers. A lot of differences between them, age and world. Responsibility and future. "Hems. You know you don't belong here, in this _world_. I'm not asking you to tell me or the guys what's in your mind, or whatever it is that happened to you before you joined us. We're glad that you're here... It's just that, are you sure being _here_ is the right choice?"

Chris was never one to tell anybody his feelings. But Evans was a brother figure. He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I want to get closer. To the man who murdered my family, that's all. The scene i saw in that vault, just took me by suprise."

But Evans didn't mention anything about the corpses, the pictures nor vault 6.

"...It took me by surprise, that's all," Chris mumbled, as he breathed in.

Evans found himself in shock. He didn't know what to say. Family. But there was one thing in this world that he could share with the young Trojan. His undying devotion to the other. He ruffled Chris' messy hair, and curved a smile. "Hey. You're like a brother to me, stubborn brat." He punched Chris' arm playfully, "You've always managed to get me weeping in worry, more than Jaimie, i dare say. I know you don't need any help, but i'll be there for you... Behind the scenes somewhere," Chris turned to him as Evans added, "I'll look out for you, protect you. I'd die for you."

It was a heartwarming thing to hear, but Chris broke into a laughter, "Wow. That's uhh... a terrifyingly extreme confession. Are you proposing me or something? Did you buy me a wedding ring?"

"Whaat? Here i am, pouring my loyalty out for you, and you laughed at me?"

"It's just so embarrassing, dude! I'm having goosebumps!"

And Evans was trying his best not to break a laugh, but he couldn't. Chris' laughter was so infectious. This soft side of someone so sad. He couldn't describe how happy he was seeing and hearing Chris' genuine laugh. "I'm serious."

"I know, i know," he chuckled, wiping the tears in his eyes. "Thanks, for everything. I'll keep that in mind."

"You should be, 'cause i'm not repeating that shit again," the older Trojan groaned, standing up and brushed invisible dirt on his pants. He fixed his jacket, and smiled. "I'm beat, got a long day tomorrow. Be sure to head back home, alright? Don't want you crashing at someone's place tonight!" He swiped Chris' soda, taking it along with him.

"...Yeah," Chris answered after Evans left the rooftop, most likely to himself. He sighed, hugging himself now as he stared at the concrete floor. His cross in his clutched hand.

' _Bro! When i grow up, i wanna be an astronaut! I'm gonna work with those space guys! And then, i'm gonna built a house on the moon! And, and! Watch the stars all night! We'll be space pirates! Steal all the planets! Ooh! Ooh! And we're gonna name our ship--'_

"Cold Stars, buddy," Chris remembered, laughing at how pitiful and ironic it was. The dead mother and her baby, reminded him of his mother and brother, screaming as the fire ate them alive. People said, the 'cold star' - Dwarf-Y - would pop out of nowhere and grant you wishes. A childish belief, but Chris believed it, for someone his age. Puffing out cold breaths, he smiled sadly at the dark sky and said, "Sorry you didn't get to be an astronaut."

*

12:18 AM

Before heading back to Jaimie's mansion in North Side, Chris met Ray and Zach watching over one part of their turf in a crime-ridden neighbourhood. There was one simple rule in this situation, provocation led to violence, all he had to do was to ignore the ongoing insults. Chris then realized he must've looked fashionless with a leather jacket, formal shirt and trousers with sneakers. Zach laughed at his exaggeration, fashion was everything these days. Ray rolled his eyes and tossed him his change of clothes, the ones Chris brought to the workshop. Saluted the bounteous spy who then offered him a bottle of beer, Chris quickly changed his trousers and the jacket. Feeling more like himself. They hang outside a convenience store, the owner was the Trojan's supporter, and minded their own business. They talked about how worried Robert and Jaimie were, and Chris quickly apologized, adding that he would return to the mansion after making a few rounds. The two didn't ask him about the GPS, it was best not to mention it again. And he was off on his motorcycle, helmet covering his head as he strolled around his turf.

Checking if everything was in order. There were a few street gangs working for the Trojan - supporters, good kids. One of the Trojan's main channel for resources, acquiring new information they hadn't heard of. Whilst some smaller, drug driven gangs, were blatantly invading - pretending to be violent and strong. Showing off their tattoos and costly bikes. Provoking him when he simply passed by. Chris scowled, what a bunch of wannabes. Chris had to do something about these outsiders, they often caused nothing but trouble to the Trojan. He remembered, two of his runners were killed in a gunfight with these violent street gangs last year. But then, when he turned around a block, Chris stumbled on something he didn't understand. He halted.

How did Rourke's runners get into the Trojan's turf?

They had their backs facing him, just a few blocks in front. Four large men in suits. Eye-catching indeed, couldn't they just try to change their clothing in this part of the neighbourhood. And someone was with them, who didn't quite belong there. He was struggling and crying, thin arms gripped tight by two muscular runners as they dragged him across the pavement of an empty street.

"...Please! P-Please...! Let me go...!" the man cried, gasping. His legs didn't seem to be doing much. "I'm begging you...!"

Could he be one of Rourke's victims? Back in the vault and the ongoing death list hidden in that computer system.

Shit.

Chris quickly looked for something. There was a metal pipe by the trash can, and a group of bikers cackling behind him, laughing at stupid jokes. Rourke's runners were going for a van parked at the other end of the street, and they - how stupidly - took their time teasing their injured captive. He grabbed the pipe, twisting around the metal against his palm, just so that his prints were smudged with oil. Turning his motorcycle to the road he came from, and round another block. Chris, helmet on, strode casually to the group of bikers. Very, very young criminals. They fixed their attention at him, scowling and snarling like cornered dogs.

"The fuck are you lookin' at, dickhead?" One shouted at him, all his friends stood.

If he wasn't wearing his helmet, they could've seen his grin when he gave them his middle finger, and zoomed away. Angry shouts and screams, insults and curses on whatever gang he was in, they ran to their bikes and chased him. Chris craned his head at the group of violent young bikers trying to bite on his tail, and headed to the van. Zooming past Rourke's runners, confused at what was about to unravel - going for the van, Chris smashed the side-view mirror with the metal pipe. Glass shattered like dust. The runners thought the whole chasing bikers were the 'smasher's' friends. The driver, another muscle, got out from the van and pummelled one biker down to the ground - beating the shit out of the youngster's face before he was ran downed by another. Rourke's runners soon got caught into a chaotic fight when a few bikers stampeded on them. Fists and skills were used, knives and pipes. Screaming fuckin' asshole at each other. Noise, and more noises. And Chris got away. But the captured man was nowhere to be seen amongst the racket.

Chris drove away to the other side of the blocks, another street, and saw the man limping to make his escape. Arms curled around his stomach, slouched down in sheer exhaustion. The young Trojan quickly whirled to him, now taking sight of how disheveled the man was. No shoes, torn shirt. A blond mess.

"Hey!" Chris shouted, voice muffled.

But he didn't realise he was cornering the poor man with his vehicle. The man had his back against the brick wall, hands shot out, trying in vain to protect himself. He cried, "N-No! No, please--"

Chris got down his motorcycle and caught the man's wrists, so thin. He muttered, "Hey, hey! Listen to me. Look here," he turned the man's face to him, trying to calm him down. "I don't bite, okay? I'm not gonna rob you, i'm not gonna do anything to you. I'm here to help."

The shorter man trembled, and swallowed thickly, "...A-Are you the police?"

"I'm not."

"H-How can i trust you...?"

Chris sighed, the man was just so traumatized he couldn't even trust a good samaritan. Went weak on his knees, Chris had to hold him up by his arms to remain standing. The fight could be over any moment now, Rourke's runners might have searching for the man. He had to be quick. He took off his helmet, cerulean blue eyes now staring at the unknown blend of the man's eyecolour. One promise he made as a Trojan leader, the youngest and probably the last, was that he would never show his face to strangers, subjects to their rivals. But Chris broke his promise, and said. "My _face_. Those guys will come back for you if you're still limping around here. And in your state? I doubt you'll last all the way home."

"Why...?"

Chris wouldn't have bothered saving the man if he wasn't in his turf. "You needed help. C'mon."

The stranger hesitated, but accepted his help. Chris pulled him to his motorcycle, shrugging off his jacket and gave his helmet to the shivering man before he hopped on his vehicle. Chris told him to grab hold of something as he switched on the engine, and felt the man's hesitant arms wrapped lightly around Chris' waist. And got him away from this part of vehement neighbourhood. Chris headed back to the convenience store, finding Ray and Zach still there, and they rushed out to him as soon as they saw the injured person behind his back.

"Chris! What the hell happened?"

"Ray, i need your car," Chris huffed, helping the man down the motorcycle, an arm clutched around his tummy. Was he injured? Zach rang Jaimie through his walkie, telling her Chris would be coming home a bit late, as Chris caught the car-keys in one hand. He changed to Ray's car just to be sure that Rourke's runners wouldn't be chasing them. The young Trojan quickly ushered the man to follow him to Ray's parked Supra as he ordered his two best 'warriors'. "Get my bike to Jeremy's workshop, holler our runners to stay alert in our turf... Rourke's dogs have crossed their border."

"Damn! The shithead just doesn't know when to quit!" Ray cussed, mounting on Chris' motorcycle and sped away, followed by Zach in his Chevy.

*

1:43 AM

He sobbed.

Chris paused, the cotton soaked in disinfectant was inches away from the large gash around the man's ankle. The stranger gave him a go, and he proceeded on cleaning the wound. Wiping the dried blood, he grimaced at the stiffled cries the man huffed out. And rolled out a bandage. Chris moved to the less severe ones on the man's face, his hands, bruised wrists as if he was bound by tight cuffs. He couldn't get him to the hospital, there were risks of Rourke's unwanted attention. He couldn't bring him to Jaimie's mansion either, another possibility that the wounded man was Rourke's planted mole. Get him to the police would cause a more troublesome issue, a team of investigators would be sent. Two rival gangs would be involved, from the Trojan's turf to Rourke's runners. Unable to call Mark, afraid that he might report to Robert about Chris showing his face to a stranger. He would handle this matter alone. And the stranger seemed to understand his dead-end situation.

The restaurant they fled into was the Trojan's safehouse owned by Jaimie, in one of their two safest territories in Chicago. They rarely used the place, for fear that this homely restaurant was ambushed by rivals when customers were here. The Trojan couldn't afford any more blood shed on their turf. And Chris' reason of saving this poor guy, was that the man happened to be in 'distress' in his territory. Though Chris did feel a bit sympathetic. What had happened to the man made everything his business.

They were in the dark kitchen, Ray's and the restaurant's first-aid kits were on the table whilst the stranger was seated on a chair. Chris standing in front of him, tending his ragged wounds.

"...My name's Tom," he said quietly. Eyes not meeting Chris', staring blankly at somewhere. Hands holding a half empty glass of water.

Shocked about the sudden introduction, Chris cleared his throat. He thought about the consequences if he did tell 'Tom' his name, but figured he might have heard Ray shouting his name at the convenience store.

"Chris," he replied, cleaning the harsh scrape on Tom's elbow gently. Thinking of a topic to break the uneasy silence, he began, "So you're British."

"...Yes."

"You know those guys?" Chris pressed on, testing the man's waters, but quickly regretted it. Tom looked pained. "You don't have to answer that." He teared yet another packet of larger band-aids to cover the scrape.

"...Y-You're like them too, aren't you?" Tom stuttered, spotting the cross hanging around Chris' neck. He thought the cross was a symbol for another mobster in town. If he could just explain how dreadful it was to be thrown into the same lot like Rourke, it would be great. "I'm more of an optimist, i mind my own business. But yeah, you're right."

"What are you planning to do...?"

Dragging a chair, Chris sat just near enough that he could feel the man's warmth. He tended the cut on Tom's eyebrow, and said, "Letting you go, what else? I promised you, didn't i? I wouldn't do anything to you... Unless you _want_ me to."

Tom shook his head.

"...S-Send me home. Please, take me home," he murmured, wiping the tears that fallen with his palm. Poor guy, his family must've been worrying over him. How many days he was held captive, Chris tried not to care.

Chris raised Tom's head by his chin, patting a light coating of disinfectant on his cut. "I will. You have a home in the US? Or you want me to send you back to London or something."

"...I," Tom winced, shutting his eyes briefly, before he started again. "I-In Avondale... I live in an apartment in Avondale."

Chris paused for a second. Avondale, Rourke's turf. Tom didn't look like he wanted to go back to his mother country, perhaps something happened there. Either way, no matter where this man would go, Rourke was everywhere and would still catch him. But the man wanted Chris to take to that wretched turf, nothing he could do but to say 'sure'. Out of sight, out of mind. But something prevented him from being satisfied with just that thought. There was something else about this man.

"...Kindergarten teacher," he snifled.

Chris smiled, putting a band-aid on the still bleeding cut. "Must be tough, taking care of kids. Heard they can be pretty nasty."

He met his eyes, the blend of his eyecolour was just so strange. In this darkness, was it blue? Or gray? There was a simple adoration in Tom's eyes about the kids he was teaching. Oh, they must've loved him. "...I just told them about the stars... And they listened to me."

"Stars? What's so great about that?" Chris said, wanting to know what Tom thought about the stars the Trojan always watched at night.

"...Wishing dwarf? I-It's the coldest star, i heard... It can grant wishes."

The man who believes the same thing as i do, Chris thought to himself. He mustered up the aloof front he set up when meeting Tom, determined to keep that distant aura. He was glad somebody believed the same crap as he did, if he could just talk more about that cold star, maybe it would finally show up. Pipe dream.

"Stomach's okay?" Chris asked carefully, raising his eyes to meet the man's fear stricken gaze when questioned. Tom quickly nodded, shivering hands tugging his worn shirt lower. As if he didn't want the Trojan to see what was hidden beneath that thin layer. Chris sighed heavily, obviously irritated, and tossed a blood soaked cotton to a bin. "Don't be difficult... You're making this harder for me to help you."

It was then Tom showed him the fresh stitches on his navel, the work of a professional. Either something was put inside, or something 'inside' was taken out. Chris narrowed his eyes, something was indeed suspicious here. He touched on the stretched skin beside the stitches, and reverted his hand away when Tom flinched. As if it was sewed there temporarily. Tom was at the verge of crying, how sentimental. But it was understandable, considering he'd just experienced the worst moment of his life. Even so, Chris couldn't just tear the man apart and see what he was carrying or missing. Tom would die if he did. _Victim-less mission_ , Robert's voice reminded him. The Trojan couldn't afford any more victims, they had enough.

Chris left the stiches there, stern eyes noted how Tom cringed at the still painful stretched skin. He sighed, holding Tom's face with his hands, startling the poor man. Chris wanted to say, what has Rourke done to you? But all that came out from his mouth that very moment, "I'll call a cab. You shouldn't trust me dropping you home... I could be a bad guy for all you know."

Tom swallowed, averting his eyes away from Chris'. Sporting an interest on Chris' cross. And he stood up, walking to the locker room nearby and found a spare clothing for Tom to change into. The owner wouldn't mind. With luck, there was a pair of sandals underneath a desk.

"Take off your clothes, change into this," Chris ordered as he placed the clothes on the table. He turned to pack the first-aid kits, spotting how Tom had a bit of trouble changing into his new shirt. His arms were stretching on his stitched skin. Chris helped him, taking full sight on the red, dark purple bruises on Tom's shoulder and chest, slipping one arm and the other and left the man tend his own buttons. By the look on Tom's face, Chris knew he felt so small if compared to his broad built, though they were at nearly the same height. The young Trojan threw the used cottons and bloodied wipes before heading to the office, for the phone.

He knew taxis weren't available this time of night, and dialled Jeremy's number instead. The watchdog answered after two rings, and by the sound of his voice, Jeremy hadn't gone to sleep yet. Agreeing with Chris' little plan to play along in front of Tom, he would be coming for them in twenty minutes. When he left the office, Tom had returned to his seat. Gingerly asked his saviour if he could have some more water. At least the man didn't look like a mess any more. Chris poured, filling up Tom's empty glass. He caught himself staring, inwardly slapped himself before retreating to the fridge. He hadn't eaten since lunch, and figured Tom too. Diced apples and pears in a container, Chris sat on the counter as the two ate in silence waiting for the 'cab'.

"...F-From which group are you?"

Chris raised an eyebrow at that, "Why'd you ask?"

"I... Didn't think any gangs would help me..." Tom answered quietly.

Chris must've looked so intimidating to have a stranger stuttering like this, he didn't notice. He searched Tom's eyes, finding nothing but pure fright. But it was still too early to trust this man. "Trojan."

There was a look on Tom's face, a realisation. "T-Trojan... Horse," he started, he was going for the route that ticked on Chris' interest. 'Trojan', for courageous warriors. Mythological for mischievous, sneaky group of soldiers. A virus, perhaps. The war, maybe. Chris expected Tom to mention one of these things, but rather the opposite. "Hopkins..."

Damn. Hopkins' four horsemen. He knew about them. Chris lips formed a thin line. "You knew Hopkins?"

"H-He helped me back in London... He asked me if i could find his daughter for him..."

"You know where she is?"

"...I came close to her, but i got..." Tom stopped, hanging his head down. "I-I got caught..."

Caught by Rourke's runners? Hopkins was acquainted to Tom, what was their real relationship? Could there be a possibility that Rourke was searching for Hopkins' daughter too? A honking sound outside, Jeremy arrived five minutes early. He wouldn't say he'd cursed the time to make his weary meeting with Tom grow short. Tom had something that Chris might need - information. But when Chris moved to greet his fellow Trojan, Tom's hand tugged on his shirt. Pleading face. Tom was begging at him.

"Help me..."

As if he was telling him, he didn't have anywhere else to go. Someplace much safer was taken from him. Chris blinked, his mouth gaped a little. There was a notion at the back of his head, telling him that he could finally save someone. But found himself searching for words. Jeremy opened the backdoor, sporting a baseball cap and a thick jacket, the very image of a taxi driver. He called for them, politely as if talking to complete strangers, playing this little ruse. Chris wrapped his hand around Tom's, warm against cold. A promise in his whisper, "I will." But he had to wait.

A moment after, Tom was seated on the backseat of Jeremy's taxi. Still scared and pale, hugging himself for warmth. Chris and Jeremy shared glances, the latter knew what his baby leader was telling him, 'tell me where he lives'. And took the fake bill Chris slipped to his hand and drove away. Chris saw, at a split second, that Tom was crying. How heavy it was to watch a desperate man searching for help go away. Known for his temper when frustrated, Chris kicked over the trash and tugged on his hair. What he collected so far was that Tom knew Hopkins and his daughter, Tom was Rourke's subject, and there was something inside Tom's stomach by the look of those ragged stitches. Tom would be a valuable asset for the Trojan to take over Rourke's empire. Chris ran back to the office, calling Scarlett's phone and felt relieved she answered him as soon as he wanted her to.

"Scar? It's me--"

"Hemmy! You're not gonna believe what i just found!" she said through the phone, a faint clacking of keys could be heard in the background. She was occupied with her computer. It seemed like Scarlett had spent her night going through the documents they found in Rourke's vault. She cleared her throat, "The list that we found earlier? They were declared missing for the past three years, some were even before that. They all lived in Rourke's territory and--"

Chris cut in, "He's been targeting them for smuggling his drugs. I know... I just met one of his mules. Saved him, actually."

"What? Hems, that's--"

He plopped down on a chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. Groaning, "We can't rush this, the guy might be someone else's mule. I don't know. Maybe a mole? Search through the documents if you can find someone named Tom. Mid 20's. Kindergarten teacher... Avondale."

The line went quiet for a moment. Then, there was her sigh, "I found it... He's on the list. But he was declared dead three years ago."

*

Hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, blowing smoke from the cigarette between his lips, Josh Brolin nonchalantly strode through the golden hallway of his Boss' mansion. Halted by two muscled runners acting as bodyguards, they searched his clothes and Brolin rolled his eyes when they found a gun. He spat, "Put it back where you found it." And they did, they were suspecting and messing with the wrong guy here. Newbies, shouldn't be that stupid. Opening the door, Brolin walked into his Boss' stuffy office and grimaced at the overwhelming smell. It was 2:45 AM and the 'important man' was still wide awake.

A glass of scotch in his hand, sweat glistened his naked back, trousers hung loose on his hips. Staring at the swimming pool outside, as if it was something interesting. Perhaps he couldn't sleep, after what had happened to his money.

Disgusted at the aftermath smell of violent sex, body odour and blood, Brolin flicked his cigarette to the bodyguards outside the room and closed the door. Walking pass the chaos of dirtied and bloodied toys, a gun resting among the pile of torn clothes soaked in a pool of blood, he clicked his tongue. What a waste of a good dress, he thought. The handle of a familiar pocket knife stuck out of a woman's lifeless chest, blade buried and puctured her heart. Brolin took in the gory sight of the bloodied couch, and the broken coffee table. He might have to order somebody to replace that $50, 000 worth furniture. And call a 'cleaner' to take care of this dead clog, his Boss' mistress. Such a pity, the woman used to look so beautiful. Now that she was covered in blood, stabbed and raped, broken legs spread wide, tortured and long dead - she turned useless. Fake card-key, it was obviouc that the Boss blamed her for being so careless. Maybe it was their fault too, who in their right mind would want to blame **Rourke**.

"You want to hear the good news or the bad news?" Brolin asked, no hint of anxiety in his tone as he perched on his Boss' desk, taking interest to an expensive pen. Rourke waved a hand, 'the bad news', and gulped down the content of his glass. Brolin hummed, spotting the fake card-key by the phone, "Card-key's lost with Jon dead. We don't know who took it, no trace at all. And Pace's mule escaped. He was carrying your ordered 'roach', the new one."

The Boss turned to him, none could deny the rage in those cold, piercing eyes. Brolin continued, "Back in North Side, our runners got into a mindless fight with a gang of bikers. Seems like Tucci's gonna have to wait for another day. The kid might have gone to the police if he's that sluggish, but we'll get it all sort out."

"And the good news?" Rourke said, pouring another round of scotch filling his glass, and dropped to his chair.

Brolin, the Boss' best 'Hunter', smirked, "Our middle man, trustworthy as he is, says he knows the brat who stole your key. Seems like the thief is working with our rival. He charged 100k though, i told him to give you some slack, considering what happened to your money."

With just that, he caught Rourke's attention. Of course, this never happened before. He had everything hidden. If the thief stole the card-key, and knew the location where he kept his money and vaults, they had been watched. For how long? Since when? Our rival, his rival - Trojan.

"The name?" he gritted, voice low and deadly.

"Remember Hemsworth? The brat's his son... Guess we left one _alive_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas!


End file.
